


One Who Lives Well

by sordes



Series: While Teaching We Learn [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, Modern Era, Mutual Pining, Professor Ardyn Izunia, Sex, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-07-15 18:15:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 46,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16068614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sordes/pseuds/sordes
Summary: Ardyn opens his door and has a foot on the ground before he thinks to say something more. “Drive safe. Text me when you get home?”“Will do,” Gilgamesh nods.The car door shuts with a dull thud and Ardyn walks through the dark to his front door, the automatic porch light flipping on as he climbs up the stairs. It’s only after Gilgamesh drives off, his tail lights disappearing down the block, that Ardyn realizes he might’ve wanted to come up. If only he’d thought to ask.Ardyn is a history professor in the midst of a mid-life crisis, grappling with his own loneliness. His friendship deepens with Gilgamesh, a sweet and patient PhD candidate, over the course of the summer, developing into something neither is able to label. A quiet, steady romance that moves at a solid 20 MPH.





	1. Mensa

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AccursedSpatula](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AccursedSpatula/gifts).



> A very belated prompt that turned into a very long and very slow car chase. The story is set in and around southeast Michigan.

What strikes him most is that he feels no different when it’s all done and his last student hands in their exam, picks up their things, and leaves the auditorium, leaving him in silence. He should be relieved—happy at least. Happy the term is over and summer has come, happy to be done with the structured rigmarole of everyday life, _happy_.

Instead, Ardyn feels the exact same.

Like an old dishcloth, discolored and sporting a hole that grows infinitesimally larger with each use. Squeezed dry, twisted so tight it hurts to extract every last bit of water, then shaken out and left to dry over the divider in the sink.

Wrung out.

In little hurry, Ardyn arranges the exams in a neat pile, a stack of thin blue booklets, then eases them into the reusable shopping bag he brought with him. Summer used to bring great prospects with it. Endless days of running and playing and doing little, if nothing, at all as a child, then steamy months spent in exotic locales, interning or volunteering or doing fieldwork as a young man. It’s a welcome break now, but offers little of the mystique and promise that it once held.

Ardyn thinks maybe he’s just crossed that line, passing over from starry-eyed youth to pragmatic, if not slightly pessimistic, adult territory. Maybe it’s normal, to feel so bone dry and unaffected by it all. To go through the motions, to get by.  

A few months where campus is quiet and the city returns to the townies. It’s what Ardyn _should_ need to get out of this funk. That’s what he tells himself over and over, at least.

It’s not as if Ardyn has had a particularly rough year, not really. He’s had worse ones, more difficult students, less interesting 100-level courses to teach. All things considered the past year was smooth and uneventful. It isn’t that he’s grown tired of teaching, either. More than a handful of sleepless nights tossing and turning over his life’s direction have proved that to him. Besides,  what else would he do besides teach? Ancient history is all he knows. Ardyn can’t picture himself doing anything else, being anyone else. He’s got no regrets in terms of his career choice.

This malady, this fatigue—the source of it is hard to put his finger on. An all encompassing tiredness that claims his body day in and day out, but refuses to let his mind drift off unencumbered even when curled up in bed. A set of worries and questions that are muted under the light of day, around his students and colleagues, a soft buzz when he’s nose deep in his books and research. By the time night falls and Ardyn inserts his key into his front door and steps inside the darkness of his home it’s a din, and when his head hits the pillow it’s a roar.

A few months of quiet in the sticky humid Michigan heat, a few months to pretend he’s back in the endless days of summer of his youth—it’s a shot of penicillin Ardyn _hopes_ works against whatever this cloud enshrouding him is.

Time to sort things out. Time to compartmentalize. Time to snap out of it.

\---

Ardyn lives in a charming Victorian on Catherine Street, far enough from the rowdy freshman crowds but close enough to campus to walk. In the winter it’s enough to make him consider digging out the car from the driveway, but more often than not he soldiers through it on foot, occasionally by bus.

While in his mid-forties, Ardyn’s managed to stay fairly trim, though staving off a slight belly during the holidays is out of his power most years. He wears his hair somewhat long and shaggy, a mess of auburn locks that refuse to cooperate more often than not. Stereotypical though it may be for a man of his profession, Ardyn, too, sports thick rimmed black glasses, and the newest item of clothing in his closet is at least ten years old. His looks, his body—never really things that he’s paid much heed to.

His looks suit him, though, Ardyn thinks. He’s a history professor with tenure, not some young upstart, fresh to the department. A lived in sort of look fits him through and through. He’s got a comfy, well-worn couch feel to him, he thinks. No showroom austereness and sharp angles here.

It's easy to forget just how small Ann Arbor is when the campus is bustling, the main thoroughfares congested with foot and bike traffic. But during the off season, the city is rendered back to its natural state. Homey, large enough to feel international, but small enough to maintain the illusion that everybody knows one another. 

Ardyn takes in the relative tranquility from his front porch, sipping his morning coffee. The last of the moving trucks and SUVs are hauling away the final few undergrad futons and the neighborhood has once more returned to its ‘rightful’ owners.

There’s still some work to be done to finish up the semester, some loose ends to tie up. But for now, Ardyn just stands on the edge of his porch, toes curling over the precipice, caught between an alien urge to bound off into the growing morning warmth and head back inside, curl up in the duvet, and sleep the day away.

Just one step forward is all he needs. A good shove, maybe. An impetus to push him over and into whatever this feeling is, a feeling so opposite and stark when compared to the heaviness draped on his shoulders lately.

But on this morning, the annoyed meow of Belit, his regal Abyssinian, stops him from taking that step. The iridescent soap bubble pops and Ardyn is pulled from his musings, coffee mug locked just inches from his lips, the steam fogging up his glasses.

Belit is hungry. So is he.

Instead of taking that step off his porch, Ardyn turns round and heads back inside, the screen door banging shut behind him.

\---

While the hustle and bustle of grad students cleaning out their makeshift offices in Tisch Hall and undergrads racing underfoot to get last minute extensions on papers or debate final exam scores doesn’t quite compare to Ardyn’s memories of the final days of school growing up, there’s no denying both have the same chaotic energy.

Ardyn can remember the halls of his high school being lined with large waste baskets for everyone to throw their old papers and trash into, though most of his peers just dumped old papers and quizzes on the floor as they emptied their lockers and backpacks. The purge of a year’s worth of _stuff_ was intensely gratifying, even for a kid who, all things considered, enjoyed school.

Even now Ardyn can still feel that raw excitement in the air from the young folks around him. So ready to get out of the rigmarole and away from structure of papers and exams.

He stops to chat with some grad students on his way to his office. Some are staying— _someone_ needs to lead the summer courses, after all—but most are headed off on some dreadfully exciting trip of some sort. Ardyn can hardly believe he used to be that young and full of gusto. He’s excited for them, of course, but also tired just hearing about their plans.

Thankfully most only want to chat briefly and Ardyn’s able to continue on toward his office in relative peace. They’ve got the annual department dinner in a few days regardless; a tradition to cap off the year before everyone heads their (mostly) separate ways for the summer months. There’s time enough to catch up and get thoroughly exhausted by the younger generation’s plans, Ardyn thinks, only at the dinner party he can do so with a glass of wine in hand.

Ardyn rounds the austere, exposed brick corner, feet shuffling over the laminate, and that feeling strikes him once more. A little jolt, an exclamation point instead of a period. He finds himself unconsciously combing his fingers through his unruly red hair, nervously fighting against it.

There’s nothing out of place in this corner of the building. If anything it’s quieter here, lacking the foot traffic and frenetic, busy energy. Ardyn always liked that about his office, being so out of the way—though it often leads to a handful of thoroughly out of breath and flustered undergrads who get lost on their way each year.

Ardyn fishes for his office keys in his pocket, shoving down this odd feeling of his, and moves to unlock his door. As he does so, his eyes fall to the nameplate on the office next to his and his lips are tugged into a small smile.

With a name like ‘Gilgamesh,’ really, what else was there for the poor bastard to do but earn an expensive degree and sign his life away to one of academia?

He’s a PhD candidate heading into his (fingers crossed) last year of school. Being that his area of interest and expertise doesn’t quite align with Ardyn’s—Mesopotamia and other ancient civilizations in the fertile crescent versus the Roman empire—Gilgamesh never TA’d for Ardyn, and Ardyn isn’t on the review board for Gilgamesh’s thesis.

But being office neighbors and being more than capable of holding a conversation together, they’re well acquainted. It’s not hard to like a student so passionate about his field of study, either.

Ever since his first year at Michigan, Gilgamesh took to attending each and every one of Ardyn’s lectures—despite not being enrolled in the class—and always stopped by for office hours—even before they were next door neighbors. There are some students who just shine amongst their peers; like a supernova surrounded by twinkling little stars. That’s the only way Ardyn can describe Gilgamesh, the hungry Iranian with the perfect voice. Raspy, deep, with that lyrical quality to it, Gilgamesh has a warm, inviting accent from his homeland Iran; a slight lilt Ardyn looks forward to hearing each time they speak. His English is perfect, though, and he’s got this wonderful, cosmopolitan aura to him. A man well-traveled and well-learned. It’s a look that suits him, like a well-tailored suit jacket.

Gilgamesh _would_ look good in a well-tailored suit jacket. Hell, he’d look good in a burlap sack.

Ardyn rolls his eyes at himself as he deposits his bag in his chair and boots his computer. He initially felt quite guilty, thinking of Gilgamesh in such ways, afraid of crossing some intangible line between them, between professor and student, despite it all being just in his head. Nowadays, thanks in part to apathy and their friendship, he just lets his mind wander.

As far as Ardyn’s concerned his musings are little more than fantasy—in the cleanest sense of the word.

Stifling a yawn, Ardyn types in the password to his computer, then grabs his mug—white with a sapphire Greek meander motif curled around the lip. The inside is fairly stained from years of use, but it’s never bothered Ardyn. As his profile loads up Ardyn exits his office, mug in tow, in search of caffeine.

There’s a small staff room on the other side of the floor. It’s got a small coffee maker, sink, and refrigerator. There’s a very worn-in couch, too, made of that scratchy material that was all the rage in the 70s when Ardyn was a kid. Ardyn nods to a few passing students on his way to the staff room, though by now most of the hubbub has come to a pause.

Just as Ardyn outstretches his free hand to open the door to the staff room, it swings open. Startled slightly, Ardyn manages to remain hold of his mug but can’t suppress the little gasp. The other party, too, gasps in surprise.

“Sorry,” Gilgamesh says, a large hand curled around his own mug of coffee. His mouth is upturned in a sheepish smile, and though he’s blocking the way, Ardyn doesn’t feel an ounce of annoyance.

Gilgamesh is tall—a good half a head taller than Ardyn—and the only word Ardyn sees fit to describe him as is _solid_. He thinks he’s heard chatter than Gilgamesh played rugby in undergrad, and he believes it. Though physically Gilgamesh is imposing, his eyes and demeanor are anything but. Always quick to smile and laugh, soft spoken, and keen to listen before sharing his own (exceedingly well-thought and intelligent) opinion, he’s the ideal student and colleague.

It certainly doesn’t hurt, either, that Gilgamesh is just as good looking as his personality is pleasant.

Soft dark eyes, full lips, and a proud aquiline nose, Gilgamesh’s features are in perfect balance. He has a strong jaw, though Ardyn’s never seen it bare—Gilgamesh perpetually sports a thick, dark beard that he keeps groomed short. His similarly thick, dark hair is wavy and looks wonderfully soft ( _though Ardyn’s never had the pleasure of touching it_ ), and he wears it long as of late, just to his shoulders. Gilgamesh is wearing a standard navy blue Michigan branded t-shirt—the sleeves tight around his dark biceps—and being this close, Ardyn can smell a hint of his aftershave or body wash: woodsy, clean, and all too inviting.

“No, it’s—It’s alright,” Ardyn says, a little too flustered for his liking.

They do an awkward dance to get round one another, but Gilgamesh lingers even when Ardyn slides past him, giving Ardyn a good view of the milky color of his coffee, and heads for the coffee maker. Ardyn’s eyes flit to him; he’s glad of the company, but caught off guard by Gilgamesh’s presence, he’s flustered and at a loss for words. “You’re… staying over the summer? No, I thought you were headed off to finish up your fieldwork?”

“Turned out that way.” Gilgamesh takes a sip of his coffee. “Got the official letter and everything the other day. Visa application denied.”

Ardyn lets out a little sigh of shared disappointment. Getting a visa to visit Iraq isn’t exactly one of the simplest things these days, given the political climate, but it’s disappointing nonetheless. “Oh, that’s too bad.”

“Someone probably forgot to stamp one place or checked the wrong box or something. I’ll figure it out, but in the meantime I’m here.”

“TA’ing?”

“I wasn’t planning on being here so… missed my window.” He shrugs, a good natured grin on his face. “ I’ve got three months of getting my dissertation up to snuff ahead of me.”

“And keeping your fingers crossed that your visa sorts itself out in the meantime.” Ardyn fills his mug with coffee from the prepared carafe, the smell of the strong, dark roast perking him up already.

“That too,” Gilgamesh chuckles. “Are you teaching anything?”

Ardyn shakes his head ‘no.’ “Off the hook this time. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I don’t _want_ to, but.” He lets out a self-deprecating laugh. “Catch-up time is good.”

“Indeed it is.”

Smiling somewhat awkwardly, it’s then that Ardyn realizes Gilgamesh is waiting for him to finish up so they can walk back to their offices together. Ardyn puts the carafe back in its place and takes hold of his mug, then gestures with it as if to say, ‘after you.’

“It’s actually good that everything got pushed back,” Gilgamesh says as they walk back, side by side. “I always missed the end of the year festivities.”

“‘Festivities’ is a strong word,” Ardyn laughs. The department usually has a number of get-togethers and dinner parties right around the end of the semester, some organized by students, others by the professors and other department faculty. “Have you really never gone to any of them?”

Gilgamesh thinks for a moment. “A few of the more casual ‘get together and drink’ ones, sure, but I’ve never been here long enough for any of the ‘official’ gatherings.”

“Well, there’s a first time for everything. Wait—does that mean it’s your first summer in Ann Arbor, too?”

“Mmhmm.”

The confirmation makes something stir in Ardyn’s stomach. Something he doesn’t want to describe as ‘butterflies,’ but he can’t really come up with anything more fitting than that in the moment.

“It’s nice. Really quiet. Can get boring, with hardly anyone around.”

Gilgamesh hums in contemplation. “But you’ll be here?”

“I will.”

“Then I’ll always have someone to talk to. You’ll have to tell me if I become an annoyance.”

By now they’ve rounded the corner of the hall and are before their respective offices. Ardyn doesn’t know quite what to make of Gilgamesh’s comment—his, dare he think it, _fliration?_

“Well,” Ardyn clears his throat, “you certainly know where to find me.”

“You’re hosting the dinner party this year, right?” Gilgamesh has his free hand on the doorknob, the tip of his tongue sneaking out between his lips.

“Ah…” It takes Ardyn a hot minute— _it certainly_ feels _like a minute under Gilgamesh’s scrutiny_ —to realize that yes, indeed the ‘honor’ has fallen to him this year. “Yep. That’s right.”

The smile Gilgamesh gives him makes Ardyn’s palms go clammy. “I’m looking forward to it.”

Gilgamesh goes into his office then, the hum of the fluorescent lights hitting Ardyn as he flips the switch on. Ardyn follows suit and heads into his office next door, then takes a seat before his computer.

Surrounded by books, stacks of papers, and the occasional wilting succulent, Ardyn takes a moment to collect himself before diving not into his awaiting inbox, but writing up his shopping list for the dinner party. Something that was so low on his list of priorities has suddenly skyrocketed to the top.

_Does Gilgamesh have any food allergies? Does he eat pork?_

Ardyn’s mug is long drained before he settles his list and is on to possibly more productive work that day.

\---

The party is a longstanding tradition; one Ardyn can hardly cancel no matter how much he wants to now, twisted in sweat-soaked sheets and dreading having to get up.

The unbearable, sticky heat of summer seems to have descended upon the city overnight, and the lack of central air at home has led to Ardyn wishing he spent the night in his air conditioned office. The last thing Ardyn wants to do is venture out into the heat and full intensity of the sun.

The thought of fighting through throngs of people in the mid-afternoon heat then blasting his kitchen with the oven makes him hit the snooze on his alarm far too many times, but he’s fighting a losing battle. Already the sheets are stifling in the stagnant bedroom air and Ardyn knows there’s no way he’s finding sleep again.

“Oh.” Ardyn stares up at the ceiling, after hitting the snooze button once more, remembering that in just a few hours Gilgamesh will be here, in his home.

That’s reason enough to finally get into gear.

Even Belit moves at a snail’s pace, eyeing Ardyn as he gets ready, questioning why on earth he’s moving about when everything in the atmosphere says stay put. She comes running quick enough when she hears him open the tin of cat food, however.

Ardyn’s backing out of the driveway in his early classic 1970s Challenger, travel mug full with piping hot coffee, shortly after. He’s gotten too late of a start and the grocery store will be slammed, the parking lot a hot, frustrating mire of slow moving shoppers and SUVs with terrible turn radiuses.

It takes a few slow passes up and down the lanes of parked cars for Ardyn to find a spot. He goes over the shopping list he prepared the day before, mentally planning out his route through the aisles before he leaves the residual chill of the car. Ardyn pats himself on the back for his foresight, opting for a more casual assortment of finger foods this year instead of the traditional sit-down meal. All manner of cheeses, cold cuts, candied fruits and nuts is on his list, and of course, a healthy selection of wine.

In, and out, he assures himself as he takes one last sip of his still-hot coffee and steps out into the full heat of the asphalt lot, already baking in the sun. A manner of minutes later he’s pushing his cart through the cheese section, dipping and squeezing in past unattended carts and aimless children to grab his selections.

As frustrating as it is—he really did leave too late—his planning serves him well. Ardyn manages to sneak in before the register lines get too long and helps the attendant by bagging his items in the reusable bags he brought with him. Coffee’s still hot when he makes it back to the car, his bougie stash safely tucked away in the trunk.

The rest of the day flies by in the blink of an eye. Belit keeps careful watch as Ardyn removes each item from its packaging and arranges it on the appropriate serving plate or charcuterie board. Reds have been set out, next to an array of glasses, whites stowed in the fridge. There are reserve bottles in the kitchen, which is sweltering thanks to the baked brie, but some things are worth sacrificing for, Ardyn thinks.

By the time the doorbell rings, just after seven, Ardyn has the full tantalizing spread laid out in the living room. He supposes they’ll do it Roman style, lounging about, eating with their fingers, but he does make sure to leave out ample napkins. For all the Roman touting of their cultural superiority, there were _some_ things they didn’t quite have right.

Of course Gilgamesh would be the first to arrive. He looks nervous; it’s his first party of this sort, and it’s clear he’s still figuring out just where the line between colleague and friend and mentor lies. Ardyn welcomes him inside, accepting the bottle of wine Gilgamesh offers. He’s genuinely grateful for the gesture, but slipping into the role of gracious host, stresses that Gilgamesh didn’t have to bring anything.

Gilgamesh follows him to the kitchen where Belit is still surveying the controlled chaos of Ardyn’s prep work. She zeroes in on the foreign presence in her domain and is off before Gilgamesh can even make his approach.

“She does that with everyone,” Ardyn assures as he checks the brie, a scorching burst of heat from the oven hitting him squarely in the face. “I’m afraid Belit will be hiding under my bed until the conclusion of tonight’s festivities.”

“Belit?” Gilgamesh smiles. He’s a tad awkward, here in Ardyn’s home, hands clearly wanting to help with something, but not sure what that is.

Ardyn finds himself smiling back, bubbling cheese in hand, retrieved from the hellishly hot oven. “It took her a few years to find her regality, but I do think the name suits her quite nicely now.” Belatedly he thinks to ask, “You aren’t allergic, are you?”

“No, no. I grew up around cats, back home.”

It’s odd to see Gilgamesh in this context, in the middle of his kitchen, but he feels like he belongs. Ardyn had liked him from the moment they met years ago, instantly recognizing the intelligence in his dark eyes and how quick his lips were to smile. Gilgamesh is still fidgeting, slightly, pushing up the sleeves of his cotton button-up. It really is too hot in the kitchen.

“Could you grab me some spoons? They’re in the drawer to your left.”

Ardyn finally turns off the blasted oven as the drawer opens smoothly at Gilgamesh’s behest, the silverware tinkling softly as he picks out the appropriate items.

“Visa issues aside, do you have any plans to go back? Visit family?”

Spoons in hand, Gilgamesh turns. “I was planning on stopping by, probably after my work is done. It’s not that far, by plane, from the dig to Tehran.”

Ardyn nods, feeling bad for not realizing the personal consequences Gilgamesh’s denied visa application withheld. Not only were his academic plans on hold due to bureaucratic oversight or the volatility of the region itself, but also his personal ones. “A stopover home after tackling the ruins,” he says, trying to sound hopeful. “I’m sure everyone will be happy to see you.”

Gilgamesh hums, playing with the spoons he retrieved on the countertop. “It’s a long time to be away.”

Ardyn is seconds from asking what he means when the doorbell rings. He offers an apologetic smile, feeling himself slipping back into host mode. “I hate to ask, but could you bring the brie and spoons out? Mind the dish, it’s still hot.”

“Of course.”

The rest of the guests filter in over the course of a half-hour and settle in around the spread in the living room. Bottles are opened and little bites are devoured. No one seems put out in the least that it’s not a more formal affair.

Ardyn opens the windows when the sun sets past nine, allowing a cool breeze to filter in. The conversation is still animated, his students going on about their research and blowing off steam from the semester put behind them. These gatherings are usually rich with this sort of talk, a way for Ardyn to reconnect with his grad students before they set off to exotic locales for research or travel.

Gilgamesh talks with the others all throughout the night, his deep voice seldom rising above the din. He glances in Ardyn’s direction several times but doesn’t make the effort to cross the room. Ardyn for his part is the constant fixture of someone’s attention, everyone wanting to get some final word with him before leaving the city for the summer.

Feeling the conversation starting to wear on him, Ardyn grabs one of the empty platters at some point and excuses himself to the kitchen under the pretense of refilling it. He’s alone in the kitchen for not two seconds before he hears Gilgamesh clear his throat from the doorway.

“Let me help.”

Ardyn thinks he should continue the façade of host and refuse, but he knows Gilgamesh’s solid, quiet presence is neither an annoyance nor a hindrance. “Thank you.”

Remnants of Ardyn’s shopping trip pulled from the fridge, the two stand side by side, carefully arranging what’s left of the capicola and prosciutto. Gilgamesh is standing so close their shoulders brush once, and again more firmly. It’s too directed to be unintentional, but just what Gilgamesh’s intent is eludes him. He smells of warm spice from his cologne and there’s an underlying fruity note from the olive oil so many of the finger foods are dressed in.  

Flustered by the wine and the lingering heat of the oven, Ardyn fat fingers the wine opener until the bottle slips on the damp countertop. Blessedly, Gilgamesh relieves him of his bottle opening duties and makes swift work of the stubborn cork. As Gilgamesh pours, Ardyn busies himself with replenishing the serving plate with olive tapenade and ancient grain crackers. He considers putting what remains of the baked brie back into the oven, only that would require turning the oven back on, so he decides against it.

“The figs were very good.”

Ardyn blinks himself back to the present, realizing Gilgamesh is trying to make conversation. “There should be a few more in the fridge, if you like.” He motions to the stainless steel appliance with his chin. An offer to fetch them or an invitation for Gilgamesh to help himself, either way.

Gilgamesh thinks for a beat, a shy smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Perhaps I could get them later? Only if you don’t mind.”

They had been quite popular with the others. Ardyn hadn’t even managed to grab one himself. He doesn’t blame Gilgamesh for coveting them. “I’ll fix a plate for you.”

“Only if it’s no trouble...”

Ardyn dismisses Gilgamesh’s worry with the shake of his hand. “Of course not. As long as you return the plate, that is.”

Laughter filters in from the other room, reminding both men that they have a social gathering to return to. Both reach for the refilled platter, their hands brushing against each other. Instead of pulling back, they let their hands linger until a particularly loud cackle breaks the spell.

“I’ve got it, thank you.” Ardyn lifts the platter, severing their touch. The wine must be getting to him, as he thinks he sees a shadow of disappointment in Gilgamesh’s eyes, his shoulders drooping slightly.

Gilgamesh follows him back to the main room, refilled glasses in hand, and they settle back into their seats from before. They never do manage to slide back into the conversation, though.

The guests filter out slowly over the next few hours, some off to other parties and gatherings, other back to their awaiting significant others or children, even. It’s a mixed group, something that never ceases to amaze Ardyn. The thought of pursuing his PhD either at the age of twenty-two, fresh from undergrad, or thirty-two, married with a bounding toddler, leaves him awestruck each time he considers it.

True to his word, Ardyn is fixing Gilgamesh a plate of the remaining figs just past eleven-thirty. The man himself walks into the kitchen, arms laden with dirty plates and glasses, and carefully places them in the sink.

“Leave them, please,” Ardyn insists as Gilgamesh flicks on the tap.

“It’s the least I can do.” Gilgamesh rolls up his sleeves before taking to rinsing the horde of small plates and utensils.

Ardyn thinks of trying to discourage him again, but knows by now Gilgamesh is not one to heed these kinds of commands. He moves to one of the drawers near the sink and pulls out the roll of saran wrap, nudging Gilgamesh with an elbow lightly. “Just put them in the dishwasher, really.” He only fumbles with the sticky, clear plastic a little, wrapping it around the plate to keep the figs from falling off, then adds, belatedly: “thank you.”

Belit makes her appearance at some point during the cleanup, curled up in a ball, overseeing the operation from the countertop. Gilgamesh makes another attempt to win her favor, this time approaching with his hand out, slow and careful. Tired from hiding during the festivities, she doesn’t flee this time, just smells his hand and must find him agreeable enough. She purrs loudly when Gilgamesh scratches under her chin, a sure sign he’s been deemed acceptable.

It’s well past midnight when Ardyn is saying his final goodbyes to Gilgamesh for the evening, both with a hand on the saran wrapped plate of figs, at the front door. They’ve both run out of things to say but both hands remain on the plate as if it’s an anchor keeping them here, Gilgamesh not wanting to get swept off to sea and Ardyn not wanting to be left behind on the shore.

It’s late enough that Ardyn could invite him to stay the night. He could use the wine as an excuse; he’s concerned about Gilgamesh driving home this late. But for all the lingering touches and looks, he’s still lacking confidence in reading, or misreading, the signals.

Mercifully Gilgamesh takes the initiative and wrests the plate free from Ardyn, his hand on the door handle.

“I’ll give this back tomorrow,” he assures, gesturing with the plate.

“Ah, sure.” Ardyn rubs the back of his neck. Awkward. Wanting to say more, but afraid to overstep a line.

Gilgamesh lets go of the door handle and takes Ardyn’s hand, gives it a gentle squeeze. He’s so close, his eyes half-closed so Ardyn can take in the fullness of his dark lashes and it dawns on him what’s happening. He tilts his head back slightly and they kiss. It’s a quick, chaste affair, just a peck really. Hardly long enough to appreciate the fullness of Gilgamesh’s lips, or the brush of his beard.

“Tomorrow,” Gilgamesh says again, squeezing Ardyn’s hand for emphasis.

Ardyn watches Gilgamesh slide into his hatchback from the porch, the plate safely set on the passenger seat. He raises his hand, not so much waving, as Gilgamesh drives off into the night, just standing watch. Ensuring, at the very least, that Gilgamesh makes it down the block and turns down the next road safely.

Parts exhausted and exhilarated, Ardyn remains cemented in place long after the tail lights of Gilgamesh’s car disappear from sight. The wine makes his head swim, and colors seem to streak and stretch before his eyes, a sure sign he needs to get himself to bed and fast.

But what strikes him here, in this moment, the cool breeze of the night hitting his face, is the crack of change he feels. Like a stone cast into a calm lake, Ardyn can feel the ripples of change moving through and over him, unstoppable now.

This kiss, whatever meaning it holds, it’s undeniable now that it’s started _something_. Just what that is Ardyn doesn’t know… but he thinks he might just learn more tomorrow.


	2. 5 South

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Cor.

Ardyn can’t help but study Cor, standing a few feet away waiting to place his order, as he chats up the barista at the register. They’ve known each other for years, and though their departments differ—history and film studies respectively—their personalities always gelled; quickly pairing off for conversation at dreaded interdepartmental mixers and outreach events. Though why, exactly, they found an easy friendship is a mystery to Ardyn. He and Cor are nothing if not opposites.

Tall and sinewy, Cor looks like a man who’s lived a hard life. Instead of going soft in that sturdy way, like Ardyn has, Cor has gone hard and lean—bony, even—in middle age. He keeps his silver hair cropped short, his jaw always sporting that rugged five o’clock shadow, a half sleeve of intricate geometrical patterns peeking out of the sleeve of his t-shirt. He has the body of a pack a day smoker and heavy drinker who turned his life around at forty and now shops religiously at Whole Foods and does yoga on the weekends. Now that classes are out for the semester he’s traded khakis for soft, loose acid-washed jeans, both knees torn—holes that Ardyn knows were earned from some misadventure years ago; Cor would never buy pre-ripped jeans.

In comparison, Ardyn is as milquetoast as it gets. He’d never had his ‘bad boy’ phase, and at the rate things are going, he doubts he ever will. It suits him just fine, really, to get these glimpses of a more... exciting lifestyle from Cor’s stories, and in return Cor seems to get a kick out of Ardyn’s comparative domesticity.

While classes are in session the two often meet for coffee. Griping about their respective department politics and lazy undergrads are common topics of conversation, though neither shies away from bringing up more personal lines of discussion. As both get older complaints about looming colonoscopies, forgotten great nephew’s birthdays, and the increase in AARP mailers grow all the more common.

Because any topic is on the table between them, Ardyn wants to probe Cor’s opinion on his... ‘inklings’ towards Gilgamesh. Ardyn can’t shake the feeling he’s doing something wrong, he’s setting himself up for disappointment at best, and risking his career at worst. Cor is a realist, a stark pragmatist, really. Even being Ardyn’s friend, he would never pull his punches. If anyone could offer some form of objective advice, it’s him.

Before Ardyn can work up to that topic of conversation, though, they chat amicably while waiting for their drinks, about summer plans and the like. Cor is leaving town in a few days for a reunion with some old friends in Oregon—getting the band back together, he says. Wanting to make a real occasion of it, he’s leaving a week and a half early to make the trip cross-country on his Harley, like some aimless Kerouacian antihero. Ardyn knows better by now than to ask if Cor was joking about the ‘band reuniting’ part; he’s seen the photos of Cor with short dark hair and a bass hanging low between his skinny legs.

Once both have their drink in hand—Cor with the standard black cafe blend and Ardyn with a latte—they settle into one of the corner tables, the seats warm from the sun. Ardyn blows pensively on his latte, trying to come up with the best way to broach the subject, but ultimately comes up empty-handed. Might as well just jump it and get it all out in the open, then.

“Is it okay to have a crush on one of your students?”

His paper cup stops midway to his lips, Cor clearly taken off guard by the question. He takes a moment to consider. “Aren’t you a little old to be using the word ‘crush?’”

“An ‘interest,’ then.” Ardyn rolls his eyes at the semantics.

“Undergrad? Yeah, that’s not kosher.” Cor takes a sip of his coffee. “Graduate level?” He shrugs. “As long as they’re not TA’ing for you, or you’re not on the review board for their thesis.”

Ardyn sighs in relief. He’s not exactly seeking Cor’s approval here for this ‘hypothetical’ situation, but it certainly makes him feel better to hear his own inclinations supported out loud and by a neutral third party.

“Can get messy, like any office romance, though.”

“Speaking from experience?” Ardyn’s half-joking, but Cor shrugs.

“When you’ve been teaching for this long…”

Ardyn looks around, scandalized. “What? When? You never told me.”

“What’s there to say? It’s just like dating anybody else.”

If not for the fact that Cor’s holding a hot cup of coffee, Ardyn would punch him in the arm. “You know for a fact that’s not true.”

“You’re both consenting adults, Ardyn. You just happen to share a place of work.”

“Yes, but…” He leans in conspiratorially. “You have to admit, from an outsider’s perspective, it doesn’t look good…”

Cor cocks an eyebrow. “You’ve been reading too many pulpy romance novels.”

Ardyn sighs, eyes falling to the steam still trailing out of his latte’s lid. “Sure.”

“Alright.” Cor swings one of his long legs over the other, resting it on his knee. “Tell me about it.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“This is the first time you’ve ever come to me for love advice, so don’t give me that.”

Ardyn can’t help but jump slightly at the mention of ‘love,’ and knows then it’s all over. Cor’ll get it out of him. He doesn’t even need to use hot coals or pliers.

Cor nods and listens as Ardyn tells all there is to tell when it comes to Gilgamesh. It’s not as if Ardyn hasn’t mentioned Gilgamesh before to him, only now that the focus of the conversation isn’t theses or research, Ardyn struggles to find the right words to describe what he’s only very recently allowed himself to entertain—that there _could_ be something more there between them.

“So go for it,” Cor says when Ardyn’s finished and finally takes a sip from his lukewarm latte. “What’ve you got to lose?”

Ardyn just blinks, as if it isn’t already obvious. “Everything?”

“Don’t be so dramatic. He’s obviously into you. He kissed you, for Christ’s sake.”

He nearly chokes on his latte. Cor eyes him incredulously, as if it’s plain as day—like he’s got all the evidence lined up in front of him and can easily make the call. Ardyn, meanwhile, feels like he’s wading through a swamp of ambiguity, terrified of misreading the signs yet all the same daring to allow himself to read into them.

“Or maybe he’s just a friendly guy.” Cor tilts his head to the side, thinking, but his voice is coated thickly with sarcasm. “Either way, there’s no harm in it.”

Ardyn shakes his head, laughing lightly. “And a moment ago you sounded so sure of things.”

“I’d need more evidence to say for sure, but from what you’ve said?” Cor sets his cup down and claps. “Congratulations. I’d say you’ve achieved what the kids are calling ‘mutual pining.’”

“Very funny.” Ardyn hopes that his well-timed sip will hide the flush on his cheeks. It doesn’t.

“Look. You can either feel him out, see if he’s really interested… or don’t. Wait for him to make a move, if he ever does. Best case scenario,” Cor places his right hand on the table, “the feeling’s mutual and you’re on your way.” He places his left hand on the table. “Worst case scenario? It’s a little awkward for a few weeks, maybe, but that’s it. You’re just asking him to have coffee, or something. Something casual enough not to be too serious, but not so casual to be misinterpreted.”

“But we get coffee all the time,” Ardyn interjects.

“Then screw the coffee. Get dinner instead.” Cor rolls his eyes. “Look, you just have to take the leap sometimes. Knowing is better than questioning for the rest of your life.”

“Speaking from experience again?”

“Last time I give you dating advice,” Cor grunts as he pushes himself using his knees and grabs his empty cup from the table.

Ardyn chuckles, following suit. “I was downgraded from ‘love advice.’ Not sure how I feel about that.”

“You’ll get over it, I’m sure.”

They toss their cups into the trash receptacle on their way out back into the heat, both squinting in the sun until they wrangle sunglasses out of pockets. Cor brings Ardyn into a tight hug, a firm pat between the shoulder blades wishing him all the best with his beau and a request for updates, then is off. Ardyn watches him disappear around the corner, envying that cool confidence of his all the while.

He already knows his choices are action and inaction, and although Cor could offer no foolproof guidance one way or the other, Ardyn does feel somewhat bolstered by his assessment of the situation.

Seems like there’s only one thing to do.

\---

‘UGLi’ really is an unfortunate moniker for such a beautiful building.

Ardyn knows it’s a name given with love, especially as so many call the place home come midterms and finals, but still it can’t help but irk him slightly each time the moniker slips from an undergrad’s lips.

He walks past the sleek, newly renovated entrance to the Hatcher Graduate Library, where the ultra modern meets the classical. Ardyn takes the steps two at a time, a nervous energy jolting through him with each hop.

Ardyn missed Gilgamesh that morning in Tisch, finding Gilgamesh’s office door locked and no light coming out from under it. A quick text informed him that Gilgamesh was already off to the stacks—Ardyn’s borrowed plate in tow—nose deep in musty tomes and research materials. Much to Ardyn’s amusement, Gilgamesh had neglected to say exactly _where_ he was in the massive library, and with cell service spotty at best in the building he knew asking wasn’t liable to get him an answer.

Knowing Gilgamesh’s area of study, however, narrows down the number of potential spots quite handily. Finding him won’t be _too_ difficult, unless Gilgamesh had decided to spend the day brushing up on his Elizabethan poetry, that is.

Passing through the cool, lofty entrance, Ardyn makes his way to the stacks. The humidity hits him first, then the familiar smell of the aged paper. It’s quiet here, it’s _always_ quiet, but it strikes Ardyn still. He finds it comforting, even, that in these times, where nearly every waking moment is dominated by screens and notifications and anxiety inducing social media, places like this, removed from all of that, still exist.

Though Ardyn’s been here more times than he can count, spent far too many a late night with his nose stuck in some book in one of the tiny cubicles in the basement, he still finds it all too easy to get turned around amidst the seemingly endless rows of books. Panic isn’t quite what sets in, though, it never has even in the dank space with nary a window. Rather a meditative calm finds him as Ardyn methodically traces his fingertips over the countless book spines on his way. He’s in no hurry now, assuming (rightly so) that Gilgamesh has devoted his entire day to the stacks.

Time is something Ardyn has plenty of.

Still, Ardyn knows he’s getting close when the thick, aged spines begin to sport titles like _Mesopotamia Before History_ and _Assyria: The Imperial Mission_ , so he slows his pace to a thoughtful meander. Some of the spines are so cracked and bent from use it’s hard to make out the titles anymore, while others—though the binding is clearly old—look brand new. Ardyn can’t help but feel badly for those passed over— _always the bridesmaid, never the bride_ —it twinges something inside him, a faint, but undeniable, pitiable sense of empathy.

Carefully, Ardyn slides one of those uncracked books from the shelf, _Dumuzi’s Dream: Aspects of Oral Poetry in a Sumerian Myth_ , and admires the way the gold leafing of the title catches the light of the fluorescents above. Something stops him just before he can open the tome.

Turning round at the sound of footsteps, Ardyn fights to keep from flinching at Gilgamesh’s sudden appearance at the end of the aisle. He’s got a few books of his own tucked under his arm and even from a good few yards away his smile is unmistakable.

“Thought I heard someone else down here.”

Ardyn’s heartbeat quickens in an instant, his palms clammy where they clutch the book. Their closeness from the other night hits him all at once, and the humming of the fluorescents is replaced by the chirping of crickets and ambient sounds of cars driving by on Ardyn’s sleepy street. He’s back on the threshold of his home, Gilgamesh leaning in, the scent of his cologne wrapping him in a warm embrace. Lips—so soft and full—on his and gone all too soon. It all feels like a dream, and the fact that it’s gone unacknowledged between them since only enforces that.

But seeing Gilgamesh in the flesh now—that matters little to Ardyn.

Ardyn goes to him without a thought, the book still in his hands, swallowing his sudden excited nerves as best he can. “Seems my guess was relatively spot on. Next time a floor number would’ve been nice,” he chuckles.

Gilgamesh’s cheeks go red and he lets out a little gasp of surprise. “I thought I—”

“It’s okay,” Ardyn assures. “Found you just fine, didn’t I?”

Gilgamesh shakes his head in slight dismay. “Did I ever tell you about the time I got lost in here for two solid hours? No cell service or anything. Thought I was going to die.”

“Did a search and rescue party have to come find you?”

“No, just an all too patient librarian. Though I did find some interesting things while things were touch and go, so, all in all at least I wouldn’t have died of boredom.” Gilgamesh laughs at that, now leading Ardyn further into the stacks presumably where his things are. “Seems like you found something, too.”

“Ah, yeah,” Ardyn smooths his thumb over the golden lettering once more. “Though I wasn’t under nearly as much duress as you were, I’m sure.”

Gilgamesh laughs deeply at that, his shoulders jostling up and down. After a few windy turns through the never ending aisles of books they arrive at a neat little cubicle, Gilgamesh’s backpack and laptop and materials strewn over the surface.

“Making progress?” Ardyn asks lightly.

Gilgamesh rocks his head side to side, weighing his answer. “It sometimes feels like I’ve read everything pertinent in this building three times over, but still I persist.”

Ardyn nods; it’s a feeling he’s had himself a few times in the past. For all the resources the university has to provide, bountiful though they are, there are some things that just can’t be captured in text and stored away on a shelf. Some things can only be gleaned from the source itself.

“Ah, before I forget…” Gilgamesh slides down into his chair and rummages through his backpack, then pulls out the cleaned plate he had borrowed. “Thank you, again. For hosting and having everyone—having me, I mean. And for the leftovers. They were—are—very much appreciated.”

Ardyn pulls out a neighboring chair and takes a seat, the ancient wood creaking softly beneath him. He accepts the plate and holds it over his lap, on top of the book, and remarks the way Gilgamesh stumbles over his words now. He really shouldn’t be so nervous about Ardyn having to sniff him out; it’s not as if Ardyn was wandering lost for hours.

“It was no trouble, really,” Ardyn replies. “I never know how much food to prepare for those things. Heaven forbid it be too little, but if it’s too much? I shouldn’t eat it all—I _could_ , though, and that’s the problem. You did me a favor.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Gilgamesh is quick to assure. “Have you heard the saying, ‘a hungry stomach makes a short prayer’?”

Ardyn chuckles at that. “If only I _was_ hungry to begin with.”

“Still…” Gilgamesh is at a loss for words, his fingers idly playing with the fraying edge of a piece of notebook paper.

“Thank you for washing the plate, though. I appreciate it.”

“Of course,” Gilgamesh perks up slightly. “It was the least I could do.”

They’re both looking at each other now, sharing a silly grin and (more than likely) a shared memory of a brief kiss. It’s as if neither quite has the courage to mention it, to make it real. So they just smile at one another lamely for a beat, toeing that almost imperceptible line between them, whatever it is.

Cor’s words of advice ring through Ardyn’s head like the reverberations of a gong. _Go for it. What’s the worst that could happen? He’s into you. He kissed you, for Christ’s sake._

Ardyn takes in a deep breath and exhales sharply. Okay.

“Do you… want to get dinner sometime? With me?”

It’s like everything crystalizes then, frozen in time. Every mote of dust is suspended in mid-air, even the buzz of the lights dissolves into pure silence. The book is warm and solid on Ardyn’s lap, the plate cool and smooth in his hands—a welcome sensation in contrast to how blazing hot Ardyn’s face feels.

Gilgamesh’s lips part to answer, but it feels like an eternity before any sound hits Ardyn’s ears. At least in the silent interim Ardyn’s mind is completely blank, and he’s given a few blessedly quiet moments free of nagging self-doubt and fear that he’s just committed some horrible faux pas.

“Absolutely.”

The word is clear and crisp. So much so Ardyn can’t deny himself that he heard it, that it was real. In the instant following Gilgamesh’s answer the ambient buzz of the lights above filters back in, the motes of dust begin to move again. Ardyn’s palms feel unbearably sweaty on the book and plate so he moves them to the desk to nervously (and hopefully inconspicuously) wipe his hands on his slacks.

Truth be told, Ardyn took the plunge without really considering just what would come next, whether Gilgamesh accepted or declined.

“Oh.” Ardyn’s face turns a few shades darker at his lackluster reply. “I mean,” he scrambles for verbal purchase, “that’s—that’s great. I don’t know when’s good for you. I’m free any time.” He winces at how boring and desperate that makes him sound. “Whenever’s good for you works for me, I mean to say.”

“Tomorrow?” Gilgamesh asks quickly, a shimmer in his eyes Ardyn attributes to the dust.

Tomorrow certainly doesn’t give Ardyn a lot of time to mentally prepare for the undertaking, but he nods, as if on autopilot. “Okay.” He nods, affirming it. Setting the plans into stone. “Okay. Is there anything you want to eat…?”

It’s only then that Ardyn notices the way Gilgamesh’s knee is bobbing. Nervous or impatient with Ardyn’s line of questioning, he can’t say, but his knee is moving frenetically. Gilgamesh chews his lip thoughtfully, a few good beats of him pondering passing before he looks back to Ardyn, almost sheepishly. “Can I think on it?”

“Of course,” Ardyn assures. “Anything that sounds good. I’m not a picky eater.”

Gilgamesh nods solemnly, as if Ardyn has entrusted him with nothing less than a life debt. “I’ll let you know.”

They smile at one another then, shy again now that the ask has been made and plans have been concocted. Though Ardyn’s missions have ostensibly been accomplished, he’s hesitant to leave. So instead of getting up and saying that he’s looking forward to Gilgamesh’s choice for dinner, he slides the Sumerian book out from under the borrowed plate and opens it gently, relishing in the crisp sound of the spine.

“Think I’ll just read this for a while, if I’m no bother,” Ardyn says softly.

“You’re never a bother,” Gilgamesh says resolutely, his chair creaking as he turns to his laptop and plunges back into his own studies.

The two carry on reading in a pleasant, comfortable silence for some time, the weight of a thousand years of history settling over them like a cozy blanket. The promise of the start of _something_ between them floating all around them like the countless motes of dust.


	3. Dim Mak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Double dinner and double dessert.

He’s got no reason to be so nervous, yet the fact still remains that he sweated through his first choice of shirt before he left the house, forcing him to change, and is regretting not bringing his third choice with him in the car.

_This is like any other time you’ve grabbed coffee or lunch, like any other meeting in his office or at the library,_ Ardyn tells himself, knowing full well that’s a big, fat lie. He’s arrived too early, so there’s little to do but worry, thrum his fingers on the steering wheel, and rearrange his mane of hair in the rearview mirror, frizzy from the humidity.

It hadn’t taken Gilgamesh more than a few hours to text Ardyn his choice for their dinner. Thai, close to campus. Ardyn gave himself an abundance of time to get there on time, hence the lingering in his car now that he’s parked and the second guessing.

The cowardly idea of canceling pops into his head, a notion as unwelcome as it is unhelpful.

_So sorry, I’ve come down with some 24-hour bug. Would hate to pass it on._

Ardyn nervously runs his tongue over his lips, his eyes invariably glancing to where his phone lays, inert, on the passenger seat.

_I’m sure you’d rather hang out with your friends on a Friday night. Let’s regroup next week_ — _maybe coffee instead?_

Coward.

Ardyn grabs his phone as he opens his door and steps into the muggy night air. He shuts the car door with a hair too much force, the metal reverberating through his hand. But it’s a show of defiance against his own weaker side that he needs right now.

His phone buzzes in his back pocket as Ardyn rounds the corner. There’s not a doubt in his mind the text is from Gilgamesh; the man himself is waiting outside the brightly lit restaurant, phone in hand. Ardyn takes a deep breath to still himself, replacing the nervous half-grimace on his face with a shy smile.

He can do this.

There’s a little awkward dance when Gilgamesh notices Ardyn’s arrival—a mix of a hug, a handshake, friendly shoulder pat. It’s good hearted, though, both left smiling as they enter the restaurant and the blast of cold air conditioning hits them.

It’s a trendy place, so packed with students every night of week that Ardyn’s only driven past it, never had the heart to pop in himself. During the off season, though, it’s pleasantly empty, the lights dimmer than Ardyn recalls them ever being on his drives. The music is softer, too, than the booming base he’s heard radiating through the glass windows whilst stuck in traffic outside the place in the past. All together it feels transformed and slowed, taking mercy on an unusual customer well beyond the average years of its usual diners.

They linger side by side a few paces from the register, necks craned up at the menu. Ardyn’s no stranger to Thai food—he may be old but he’s not uncultured—but he can’t decide what to choose. He squints at the menu so long that Gilgamesh grabs a paper menu from the register and hands it to him.

“What are you getting?” Ardyn asks as he accepts the menu. “I’ve never been here before.”

“Can’t go wrong with the pad thai.”

Ardyn doesn’t even try to mask his smile as their hands brush during the menu handoff. “You come here often?”

Gilgamesh wags his head side to side, thinking. “As a treat, sometimes.”

They end up ordering two pad thais, Ardyn’s mild and Gilgamesh opting for the hottest option—the spice level that comes with a blase warning from the kid working the register. There’s an awkward fumble next, each reaching into their back pocket for their wallet. Ardyn pulls his card out before Gilgamesh can manage to grab his cash, though, and hands it to the kid. “It’s on me,” Ardyn says firmly. “My treat.”

Gilgamesh gives his thanks and takes the little metallic stand holding their order number. He leads Ardyn to a clean table against the wall and sets the stand down. Ardyn just idles by the table as Gilgamesh next gets them water from the dispenser nearby, only sitting when Gilgamesh lowers himself into the seat, his back facing the window.

Ardyn takes a few sips of his water, his eyes roaming (perhaps not as inconspicuously as they should) over Gilgamesh before him. He’s resting his elbows on the table, forearms covered in a dusting of dark hair, the sleeves to his grey t-shirt rolled slightly, snug around his biceps. As always Gilgamesh’s beard is perfectly groomed, his full lips together but pulled into a small smile. He smells faintly of clove and vanilla, body wash or cologne faded through the day, but pleasant all the same.

It’s a fast food joint through and through so their orders come quickly enough. The same kid from the register sets down the pad thai (each in a black plastic container) and collects the stand before departing, leaving Ardyn and Gilgamesh to their steaming piles of noodles. Fearlessly, Ardyn rips open the paper wrapper to his chopsticks while Gilgamesh picks up a plastic fork instead.

“Never quite got the hang of those,” he says, watching Ardyn break the chopsticks apart. “First time I held a pair I was well into my twenties.”

“Same here,” Ardyn replies, maneuvering the sticks in his hand. “Though for me that was twenty years ago.” He laughs, demonstrating the hold. “It’s not so hard, just takes practice.”

Gilgamesh does get the swing of it, _sort of_ , with Ardyn’s help. He presses Gilgamesh’s hand into the proper hold, and Gilgamesh does manage to get a few bites into his mouth but ultimately opts for the fork.

Ardyn’s food is pleasantly spicy on his tongue, the sauce a perfect mix of salt and sweetness, heat and tang. He’s never been one for overly spicy food, a consequence of his Midwestern upbringing where bland but hearty casseroles are the norm. He has, however, tried to compensate for this in later life. No matter how much Ardyn experiments with different spices and flavors from around the world, though, his tolerance for spice remains woefully low.

Gilgamesh, on the other hand, doesn’t seem the least bit affected by his choice of spice level, the noodles and vegetables coated in hellishly deep red chili flakes. He catches Ardyn staring at his food, smiles as he brings another forkful to his mouth.

“Want to try?”

Ardyn knows it’s ill advised, but Gilgamesh (rather innocently) is already pushing his dish towards him. He takes a piece of noodle, one with the fewest chili flakes on it, wincing already before he brings it to his mouth.

Some hacking coughs, a flurry of frantic apologies, and good hearted laughs later, Ardyn admits defeat and Gilgamesh fetches him a refill on his water. They share conversation, but not the pad thai, after that.

“Did your mother confuse the saffron for chili flakes when you were growing up?” Ardyn asks over the rim of his cup, taking another healthy gulp to quell the lingering heat on his lips and tongue.

Gilgamesh laughs, shakes his head ‘no.’ “I have my fellow international students from undergrad to thank for that. The Malaysians were particularly brutal with me until I got used to it.”

“You ‘got used to it’? I’ve been trying half my adult life to do just that. Tell me your secrets.”

“Ego is probably the biggest contributing factor.” Gilgamesh mulls it over, head tilting to the side. “Dumb male ego and fatigue from eating the same bland food day in and day out. Don’t get me wrong, I’d love to go back to England, but… I don’t know if there’s a suitcase large enough for number of spices I’d have to bring.”

Ardyn laughs harder than he should. He can imagine a younger Gilgamesh, fresh faced and oh so young, thousands of miles from home in some pub, sullenly poking at an under-seasoned plate of mashed potatoes and Sunday roast. “Desperate times call for desperate measures indeed.”

“Coming here was an improvement in that respect,” Gilgamesh nods.

“You don’t find Ann Arbor… quaint in comparison?”

“It feels different, certainly, but in a good way. More homey, I guess. Could do without all the snow, though.”

Ardyn nods in agreement. He enjoys the change of seasons, can’t bring himself to understand how people can live in climates that don’t allow for it, but all the same he can’t count shoveling out his driveway after the plow comes through as one of his favorite past times.

“The windows were rattling straight through from October through March my first year here,” Gilgamesh chuckles. “Zero insulation, walls thin as paper. I don’t think my backside saw the sun until the last drop of snow melted away, it was so cold.”

It was a particularly harsh winter, three years ago when Gilgamesh began the first year of the doctorate program. Ardyn can remember many a morning nearly giving into his weaker impulses to cancel class give into the siren call of bed and huddle amongst the blankets and Belit. “You were nearly always sick, I don’t think I saw your neck until spring, now that I think about it. Always had that big scarf on, even inside.”

Gilgamesh nods, laughing. “My first Michigan winter was… an experience, to say the least.”

“You never mentioned how cold your apartment was…” Ardyn pushes a piece of bell pepper around with his chopsticks, suddenly guilty for his inattention three years ago. “I may not look it, but I’m pretty handy. Could’ve at least made you soup.”

He glances up to see Gilgamesh smiling back at him, radiating warmth and comfort much like his plush bed in the dead of winter. “I survived. Grew my winter beard and everything. Learned to check the windows before signing the lease on my next place, too,” he adds.

“And how does a winter beard different from the beard you’re sporting now?”

“One’s utilitarian the other is entirely for aesthetics.”

“Come to think of it, don’t think I’ve ever seen you clean shaven.”

“There are photos of a fresh faced 13-year-old me somewhere. Heaven forbid my mother discovers Facebook.”

“I’m sure you were very charming at that age.”

“If by charming you mean gangly and awkward, then yes.”

Ardyn shakes his head lightly, chuckling. It’s difficult, more like impossible, to picture Gilgamesh as anything but the strapping young man before him. “Oh, come now, I’m sure you were fine. I, on the other hand, have eight years’ worth of awful class photos to my name”

“Tucked away in a shoebox, or can I find these online somewhere?”

“A shoebox in the darkest corner of my closet.”

“Will you show me if I ask nicely?”

“Ask me after I’ve had a drink or two.”

“I’ll remember that.”

They discard their empty trays a while later, both reluctant to leave the coolness of the restaurant. Eventually they do take that step back outside, though it’s pleasantly balmy now that the sun has completely set. It’s quiet, just the slow swishing of a few cars, the soft conversation of students filtering in here and there, the street awash with lights from sleepy, half-empty shops and restaurants.

Instead of saying goodbye and ending things for the night, Ardyn and Gilgamesh begin to walk, the conversation continuing easily. It feels comfortable once more, simple as it always had before the notion of dating and feelings popped into Ardyn’s head. He does wonder how Gilgamesh is interpreting this night—is it just another casual get-together, as friends? Does he, too, feel there’s something else beneath the surface between them?

Ardyn bites back the question as they step into a brightly lit shop for dessert. They mill before the ice cream counter for a hot minute, hemming and hawing between flavors, though both politely decline the clerk’s offer of a free sample. Ardyn ultimately goes for the rocky road while Gilgamesh chooses mint chip, a devilish grin shared between them when they both opt for two scoops. This time Gilgamesh succeeds in getting his cash out first, and Ardyn is left to say his thanks as he loops a loose strand of hair behind his ear.

Ice cream in hand they continue their walk down South University, crossing over into the quad. Ardyn loves how the quad looks at this time of night, the old lamps casting the greenery and stoic architecture in soft, romantic hues. They do a wide loop, licking at their melting ice cream cones, and by the time they circle back round all that remains of dessert is vaguely sticky fingers.

Slowly they make their way back to the Thai place, near which both have parked. They come across Ardyn’s car first and pause to finish up their conversation, though neither is eager to end things so soon. Ardyn leans against the side of his car, fingering the keys in his pocket, but makes no move to remove them. Gilgamesh for his part is standing close enough for Ardyn to smell the traces of his faded cologne once more, the smooth vanilla punctuated with a bright hint of mint from his ice cream.

“We should do this again sometime,” Gilgamesh says, finally taking that step towards parting.

Ardyn nods in agreement, though by now he's convinced himself that that ‘sometime’ is a nebulous thing. Something said to be polite with little backing to it.

“Maybe… sometime next week?” Gilgamesh asks.

Still imprecise, but it’s something. “Of course—”

Gilgamesh bites the side of his lip slightly, apprehensive of overstepping some invisible line between them, perhaps. “Only if you like, and have the time.”

Ardyn finds himself agreeing before Gilgamesh’s words even sink in. “I’d love to.”

Gilgamesh brightens, his smile contagious. “Only if you want to, though. I know you’re busy…”

“Trust me,” Ardyn says firmly, tempted to reach out and squeeze Gilgamesh’s wrist for emphasis. “It’s summer anyway, no one’s around. But even during the semester, I always have time for you.”

Gilgamesh smiles widely at that. From there it’s a less awkward dance than the beginning of the evening; they pull off the parting hug with little difficulty. It dawns on Ardyn as Gilgamesh squeezes him this is the first time they’ve really hugged one another in earnest, a thought that’s enough to send his heart racing. Gilgamesh’s back is sturdy and warm as Ardyn’s palms slide over his shoulder blades, and he knows he shouldn’t hold on too long, but by the same measure, Gilgamesh doesn’t seem too eager to let go either.

“Did you park close by? I can drive you to your car,” Ardyn offers softly as they pull back from the other’s embrace.

“I’m just around the corner, not too far, so no worries.”

Ardyn nods. They’ve reached the natural conclusion of things, for now. “I’ll see you around, then.”

“Right.”

Gilgamesh lingers on the sidewalk as Ardyn gets into his car and drives off, waving as if Ardyn’s going away on some long journey, rather than just going home. Ardyn keeps an eye on his rearview mirror all the while as Gilgamesh gets smaller and smaller, then is ultimately obscured by the townscape.

\---

Windows down, the cool night breeze whizzing through his hair—Ardyn probably shouldn’t be driving so fast, but he doesn’t think he can slow down.

Everything from his shoulders to the atmosphere felt so heavy just hours ago and in contrast now feels lighter than air. Ardyn’s hardly one to crank the stereo up and _cruise_ , but there’s a first time for everything, he supposes.

He’s acting like a teenager, he realizes. Buzzed on little else but the last few hours spent with Gilgamesh—it’s like Ardyn’s got contact high from his presence.

It’s entirely stupid, Ardyn realizes, but he can’t get rid of the grin on his face and can’t stop his stomach from churning with giddy nerves. Has he ever felt this way before? Even as a real teenager, awash with hormones, Ardyn can’t recall anyone or anything making him feel so… like if not for his seatbelt he’d just float right away.

It’s asinine. It’s not as if Ardyn’s life up to now has been devoid of affection and even the odd detached sexual encounter. But nothing compares to this swirling, coursing feeling inside now.

On the one hand it’s exhilarating. Suddenly so many of the Top 40 hits have taken on new meaning to Ardyn’s ears. On the other, it’s abysmally terrifying.

Ardyn’s mind reaches that bleak conclusion just as he pulls into his driveway. The porch light is on invitingly, and he catches a glimpse of Belit nudging her face through the curtains in one of the front windows to see who’s come home.

_There clearly_ is _something between them, right?_

The little flirtations, hell, the _kiss_. Ardyn has a stack of evidence before him, but it still all feels so incomprehensible. Like a doctor on some medical drama trying to get to the bottom of a list of seemingly random and inexplicable symptoms.

Ardyn sees Belit meow soundlessly on the other side of the glass, hungry or thirsty or annoyed at his late homecoming, no doubt. Guts twisting with a mix of conflicting feelings, Ardyn kills the engine and exits his car.

_No sense in worrying over it,_ he thinks, but his words ring empty. Of course he’ll be worrying about it now, now that his stupid wandering mind had to bring it up and paint a translucent film of doubt over the evening’s events. Ardyn harangues himself internally for doing that, for always second guessing everything, as he twists his key in the slot, unlocking the front door to his house.

Belt is there immediately, chirping and meowing incessantly, but rubbing her head and body against Ardyn’s legs all the same, caught between outrage at his absence and joy at his return.

“I know, I know,” Ardyn says, closing the door behind him and fastening the lock. He’s already halfway down the hall to the kitchen to refill Belit’s food bowl before his mind can warp the memory of his kiss with Gilgamesh, as if moving away from the place where it happened would do anything to help.

Belit’s already had her dinner but Ardyn grabs another can of wet food from the pantry nonetheless. He then excavates a slightly freezer burnt fudgsicle—the last in its squished box, hidden underneath a jumbo bag of frozen hash browns—and eats it standing in the kitchen, watching Belit eat her surprise second dinner.

Some snide comment about _eating your feelings_ slips into the back of Ardyn’s head but he lets it wash over him.

_I made my move. If there’s something there, Gilgamesh will make his._

That doesn’t stop the voice from questioning _what if he doesn’t?_ but Ardyn’s proud of himself for at least realizing that he’s self-sabotaging here.

The fudgsicle isn’t even that good but Ardyn finishes it and tosses the sticky wrapper and popsicle stick in the trash before heading up to shower and sleep. Much like the residual stickiness on his fingers, though, the questions linger.

Just what the hell is he doing?


	4. Mighty Real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moping and an impromptu outing.

The next few days pass like agony.

The highs of their outing— _Ardyn can’t bring himself to refer to it as a_ date _anymore_ —are quickly twisted around until, in Ardyn’s head, only the awkward silences and lulls in their conversation remain.

_It was a horrible mess, he had overstepped his boundaries, made a fool of himself. Gilgamesh was only being polite, only entertaining this impossible fantasy because he didn’t have it in him to just let Ardyn down. He’s too nice for his own good, his kindness misguided._

It doesn’t help one bit that his interactions with Gilgamesh in the days following their outing are glib and impersonal, a few chance encounters passing by one another on campus, and little else. Gilgamesh is tied up in the library, but Ardyn twists this, too, into an indirect rejection.

Trouble is, even when Ardyn realizes he’s spiraling, he’s still powerless to stop himself.

Ardyn stays in bed the third day; he just doesn’t have it in him to drag himself to his office and face new disappointment. There’s a limit to how long he can stay wrapped up in the sweat soaked sheets, though. That combined with Belit’s annoyed meowing and bites to his arms for food finally gets him on his feet, but he isn’t happy about it.

Nothing seems to hold his attention, and so Ardyn wanders dispassionately between chores and not-so-distracting distractions for much of the day. He can’t stop himself from checking his phone every thirty minutes or so, desperate for an email or text from Gilgamesh, but all the while telling himself there’s no way anything will come. Ardyn doesn’t know why he continues to torment himself by checking, but it’s like an involuntary tick now, something he lacks the power to stop or rationalize.

By the time nine thirty rolls around Ardyn’s on the couch, flipping between channels on the TV. Nothing holds his attention or even comes close to distracting him, and all in all he’s ready to fix himself a healthy glass of wine and pack it in for the night—healthy coping mechanisms be damned.

The sound of his phone vibrating on the coffee table before him startles him so badly, Ardyn nearly falls off the couch. Despite the way his heart soars at the possibilities that text message brings with it, like the defeatist he’s become tonight, Ardyn tells himself there’s no way in hell it’s from Gilgamesh. Probably a spam text, a wrong number. An update from Cor on his cross-country trip.

But curiosity gets the better of him, as it always does, and Ardyn grabs his phone, steals himself with a letter breath, and powers on the screen.

_Are you home?_

Three little words, accompanied by the name ‘Gilgamesh’ above them.

Ardyn’s heart leaps into his throat as he unlocks his phone. Sitting straight up, back stiff as a board, his thumbs hover over the keyboard, unsure of how to respond. A thousand and one things fly through Ardyn’s head questioning the context of the ask and what the ‘right’ answer is.

Before he can decide, little bubbles indicating Gilgamesh is typing appear.

_And are you free?_

More bubbles, only they seem to be on screen for much longer this time.

_No pressure if you aren’t! I know you’re busy!_

The text, followed by a little praying hands emoji, only perplexes Ardyn more.

With little grace or subtlety, Ardyn bluntly types: _What?_

A few befuddled seconds pass, both typing simultaneously. One part race, another part Mexican standoff. Gilgamesh ultimately ‘wins’—a credit to his youth or nimble fingers or both—sending over: _I’m in the neighborhood…_

Ardyn jumps to his feet so fast he nearly hits his head on the ceiling.

_Where?_

Ardyn scrambles to type while fixing his schlubby mess of an outfit—mismatched socks, sleep boxers with nearly worn out elastic; the whole nine yards.

There’s a long pause leading up to Gilgamesh’s next reply, time enough for Ardyn to do something with his hair (which is really just comb his fingers through it hastily).

_Front porch…?_

Ardyn stops dead in his tracks and gives his thanks that the front curtains are all closed, hiding his miserable state to the outside world.

_And I’m just realizing what a creep I sound like. Please forget I asked or said anything!_

Ardyn is halfway through typing out “hold on,” when he gets to the front door, appearance be damned. Belit chirps from behind him, down the hall, perturbed by the sudden turn of events, but Ardyn pays her little mind. Phone in hand he steps onto his porch, half expecting to find Gilgamesh on the other side of the door.

While Gilgamesh isn’t literally standing on the porch, his hatchback is unmistakable, parked a few cars down, on the street. The telltale blue glow of a phone screen gives him away, too.

It’s unclear whether this is an anxiety induced hallucination, a cosmic joke, or a combination of the two. Ardyn can do little but wave with his phone in hand at Gilgamesh’s car, a gesture mirrored by Gilgamesh in the driver’s seat a few seconds later.

Confusion knits his brows together as a stupid, disbelieving grin spreads across his face, Ardyn brings his phone up to type once more.

_Do you want to come in, or…?_

He sees Gilgamesh fumble his phone in the dark a beat later, hurrying to formulate a response.

_Actually…_

Belit chirps again, this time peering out from the screen door, her two little paws pressed against the mesh. She, too, is in parts perplexed and upset by this deviation from the norm, but quiets as Gilgamesh gets out of his car, jogs across Ardyn’s lawn, and stops just at the foot of the porch steps.

“Hi…” Gilgamesh trails off, gaze flitting down to his feet as if suddenly regretting everything.

“Hi,” Ardyn replies, unable to mask the confusion in his voice.

“Easier just to talk, I realized,” he says self-consciously, still holding his phone.

Ardyn knows he must look a mess, his brain is currently short-circuiting, and he’s still having difficulty processing that Gilgamesh once more is here, at his house, in the flesh. It’s surreal, even more so than the first time.

Gilgamesh takes a step closer, the wooden step creaking softly under his weight. He’s got one hand on the banister, the other clutching his phone, a slight flush spread across his cheeks. Though Gilgamesh’s body language spells out the fact that he’s a bit embarrassed to be ‘caught’ like this, he doesn’t slow, moving closer to Ardyn.

“This is really dumb, I’m realizing, so if I’m interrupting something please tell me.” Though his words express doubt, Gilgamesh continues to come closer. “Do… do you want to go somewhere?”

Ardyn blinks once, twice. “Right now?”

“Right now.”

Ardyn could describe Gilgamesh’s laugh as ‘high and airy,’ though really the timbre of his voice hasn’t changed all. It’s strange, to see someone else so frazzled and worked up for a change, and on the other hand, to feel so secure and decided in his answer.

“I’d love to.” The answer is a no-brainer, really, but… “Maybe give me a few minutes to get ready...?” Ardyn shifts his weight between his bare feet, and prays to God Gilgamesh doesn’t look down and see how pasty his legs are.

“However much time you need!” The words tumble out from Gilgamesh’s mouth in a near jumbled heap.

They make it back inside Ardyn’s house, where Ardyn heads upstairs to change while Gilgamesh entertains a not so skittish Belit in the front hall. It’s only as Ardyn opens his closet does he realize that he has no idea _where_ they’re going, and is too awkward to go back downstairs and ask. His standard summer getup—loose khakis, a breezy cotton button-down—is probably fine, he thinks, so that’s what he goes with.

When he heads downstairs, Ardyn finds Gilgamesh crouched, slowly petting Belit’s belly as she lies prone, feet curled, eyes closed.

Crazy, impromptu outing be damned. Ardyn just wants to stay on the stairs and watch a little while longer.

\---

Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.

A quiet evening at home, sharing a bottle of wine or a few mugs of coffee, both cooing over Belit. _That_ would’ve been a dream come true. Instead… Ardyn’s at a loss.

He can hear the bass pounding from a block away where Gilgamesh parked. Ardyn knows there’s a popular nightclub here—one that’s usually packed with students on Friday and Saturday nights during the school year—but he hadn’t thought that A. it would be open over the relatively quiet summer season and, more importantly, B. that Gilgamesh would be the type to go to such a place.

That isn’t a fair judgment to make, Ardyn knows. This isn’t the puritanical era and Gilgamesh is a grown man, free to do what he likes. But the notion nags at him still—that there’s this other side to Gilgamesh that he hadn’t the faintest idea existed up till now. That Ardyn doesn’t really _know_ Gilgamesh despite everything.

Ardyn tries to remind himself that Gilgamesh is just as multifaceted as he is. If anything, it should be encouraging that Gilgamesh is showing this side of himself, though as they get closer to the source of the music, Ardyn becomes sure of something else: _he_ doesn’t belong here.

He’d never _ever_ think of coming to a place like this, especially not during the school year. The thought of being seen by students at the grocery store is enough to make him uneasy, let alone a place where you’re supposed to dance.

_Dance. You’re supposed to dance at a nightclub._

The closer they get to the brick facade of the club the more Ardyn is convinced this was a terrible mistake. Still, he moves in lockstep with Gilgamesh, who is definitely talking, smiling and gesturing animatedly as he does so, but his words fall upon deaf ears, what with Ardyn being too busy dreading looking like an idiot once they get inside.

There’s no usual line to get in, but a bouncer sits on a tall stool out front of the tinted glass entrance all the same. An imposing fellow with two full sleeves of tattoos, but he smiles as he checks their IDs ( _‘Yeah, I’ll need to see yours, too, sir,’_ —Ardyn should be flattered, he must look good for his age to warrant the ID check) then wraps a Heineken branded wristband around each of them.

The brunt force of the pulsating beat hits them once they’re inside. It takes Ardyn what feels like a full minute to accept that he’s here, inside a building he thought he’d never step foot in, with the object of his adoration at his side.

Much like the street outside, the space is pretty sparse. Some are dancing on floor, bodies awash in the flickering colored lights and twinkling of the disco ball, others are positioned around the long bar or sitting at a few tables.

Even from the doors it’s clear that it’s an older crowd. Not geriatrics out from the nursing home, no, but kindred spirits, maybe. People who would never set foot inside under threat of scrutiny of a younger crowd. A mix of men and women, though mostly men.  

All completely uninhibited in their movements, unabashed, unconcerned. Ardyn suddenly feels quite faint.

Next to him, Gilgamesh shouts over the music (the soundtrack to Ardyn’s early childhood, it seems, before disco died) to be heard. “Buy you a drink?”

Something to take the edge off is just what he needs. Ardyn nods eagerly.

At the bar, Gilgamesh orders a rum and coke; Ardyn a redheaded slut. His choice earns an amused laugh from Gilgamesh, which naturally makes his face go beet red. Regretting everything, Ardyn turns himself around, and does his best to focus on the people dancing instead of Gilgamesh, still chuckling, at his side.

It doesn’t help things at all that Gilgamesh looks amazing tonight. Not that he doesn’t look amazing _all the time_ , but there’s something about the way the colorful lights paint his dark skin and hair that Ardyn finds exceptionally beautiful. He’s wearing straight legged jeans, a loose short sleeve button-up tucked in, accentuating the definition of his waist. Gilgamesh’s shirt is unbuttoned _just_ enough to give more than a hint of chest hair.

With the music so loud, conversation is difficult. Ardyn doesn’t find himself in too much of a chatty mood, all of the sudden, so perhaps it’s for the best. A few sips of his choice drink does lift his suddenly sullen spirits a little—well, that and the occasional little bumps and rubs up against Gilgamesh’s arm—and as the smooth concoction of jager and schnapps slides down his throat, Ardyn’s shoulders begin to loosen up.

The two stand shoulder to shoulder, backs against the bar, drinks in hand, for a couple songs, watching the untethered dancers. It’s remarkable, Ardyn thinks, how free they look. Not a self-conscious one in sight. Ardyn takes a healthy sip, more of a gulp, really. A part of him is longing for the liquid courage to manifest; another part is dreading himself crumpling into a blubbering, drunken mess—the wrong inhibitions set free.

The longer they stand, the louder the music seems to get and the hotter Gilgamesh’s arm on Ardyn’s seems to become. The strobing lights, too, leave tracers in Ardyn’s visions and all of the sudden the air feels too thick with cologne and sweat.

“Be right back,” Ardyn sputters, just as Gilgamesh leans in to say something. He spins round and puts his half empty drink on the bar then sets off for the bathroom, moving with a speed and purpose. Ardyn misses how not a second later Gilgamesh scoops up his abandoned drink, the perspiration on the sides of the glass wetting his hand.

Thankfully the bathroom is empty, save Ardyn. It’s small, just a couple stalls and three urinals, relatively clean. Ardyn wastes little time and splashes his face with water from one of the sinks, a welcome coolness on his heated skin.

This is ridiculous, and he knows it. He’s acting like an overwhelmed child. He’s making a fool of himself.

Ardyn gives his face another splash for good measure, then cuts off the tap. He’s done a fine job of getting his bangs and the long strands of hair around his face wet. The tendrils of hair are plastered to his forehead and cheeks, skin still cherry red and hot to the touch.

_If I didn’t already look a mess…_

Ardyn chews his lower lip as he takes in his appearance. Beleaguered, in way over his head.

_Stop that this instant._

Rather forcefully, Ardyn pulls a few sheets of paper towel from the nearby dispenser and dabs his face dry. Gilgamesh asked him here. He made his move. Wasn’t this what Ardyn was agonizing over? Isn’t this exactly what he wanted?

Slicking back his hair, Ardyn sets his jaw, channeling this new wave of defiance. He got what he wanted, so why is he hiding in the bathroom? Squandering his chance? Wasting this opportunity?

_Snap out of it._

Ardyn wads the damp paper towel into a ball and tosses it into the trash. His belly still feels like it has a bucket of slithery eels in it, sure, but if there’s one thing the impromptu pep talk has done, it’s at least put him in the right mindset to _try_.

He gives himself one last one over in the mirror being leaving, arranging and rearranging his wild hair. It’ll never be perfect, but that doesn’t stop him from trying.

The bar is packed when Ardyn finally heads back, the former dancers now ordering and sipping their own fare. Gilgamesh instantly spots him approach, and raises Ardyn’s red glass in the air to call him over.

“Kept it safe for you,” Gilgamesh says as he hands back Ardyn’s drink.

“From who…?” Ardyn accepts the drink, the glass now lukewarm to the touch. He has to squeeze in next to Gilgamesh, inadvertently brushing up against him, to reclaim his spot. Ardyn catches a faint whiff of orange blossom and jasmine. Cologne? _No_ —this close Ardyn can see Gilgamesh’s beard almost has a glint to it— _did he put product in it?_

Gilgamesh brings his own glass to his lips. “Can’t leave your drink unattended. It’s common sense.”

Ardyn can’t help but cock an eyebrow at that, putting his best foot forward to banter. “Oh? But you’re saying I can trust you, right?”

“Of course.” Gilgamesh seems to puff his chest up a little at that. Then deflates. “I mean, I would never—”

Ardyn bursts into laughter at the absurdity of it all. First, that _anyone_ would try and spike his drink, and second that _Gilgamesh_ would ever be capable of such a thing. He gladly downs the rest of his drink in one go, then deposits the empty glass on the bar.  “Sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it. Really.”

Gilgamesh nods solemnly, instantly making Ardyn feel terrible for the joke. Noticing the way Ardyn’s wilting, he leans in close, enveloping Ardyn in his warm, seductive scent. “You okay?”

Ardyn startles when he really shouldn’t. Gilgamesh would have to be a rock to not notice how flustered Ardyn’s been tonight, and he’s proven himself to be nothing if not perceptive and considerate and disgustingly kind. Lying won’t work here, Ardyn knows, so he takes in a little, shaky breath.

“Not completely,” he says with total honesty, “but I’m getting there.”

Gilgamesh smiles at him, softly, almost sadly, and a warm flush spreads across Ardyn’s cheeks. The proximity doesn’t help things, what with that sweet smell Gilgamesh’s beard is diffusing all around them. Ardyn feels like he’s slowly being drawn into Gilgamesh’s gaze, his smile.

It’s embarrassing how hard Ardyn’s fallen for someone at this age.

As the beat from one song fades, the beat of another kicks in—fast and rhythmic. A number of people around the bar perk up at the iconic synth, downing their drinks and beelining for the dance floor.

Gilgamesh, too, is caught by the pied piper’s spell and empties his glass in one swift go, plunking it down next to Ardyn’s on the bar. Grinning like a fool, bopping back and forth on the balls of his feet, he rolls up his loose, short sleeves, exposing more of his biceps. “Let’s dance.”

_Oh God._

“I don’t really…”

“I love this song!” Gilgamesh pushes himself away from the bar, gives his shoulders a little shimmy. “C’mon!”

“I’d really rather not—”

“Ardyn, live a little!” He’s got his hand outstretched, palm upturned. An open invitation, a clear request. “Come with me.”

Gaze flitting between Gilgamesh’s eyes and hand, Ardyn parts his lips to say something. If he’s _still_ waiting for a sign, this _has_ to be it.

There’s no spark, or fireworks, when their hands touch. It’s not as if in the very act of taking Gilgamesh’s hand, suddenly every bit of baggage holding Ardyn down evaporates like the last little puddles in the sun after a summer storm. Or that this little affirmation of _something_ simply makes all of Ardyn’s questions disappear and exposes a whole range of color missing in his life up to now—like Dorothy arriving in Oz for the first time.

There’s no spark, no explosion of Greek fire, but rather the intensely comforting squeeze from Gilgamesh’s hand and a smile so perfect and happy it makes Ardyn’s chest tighten. Fingers tangled, Gilgamesh leads him into the fray, the constantly shifting sea of bodies all clamoring for space, gyrating and undulating. Ardyn reaffirms his grip on Gilgamesh’s hand, not wanting to get separated or sucked away in the undertow. He nearly collides with Gilgamesh when he stops suddenly, not quite in the center of the dance floor, but a spot deemed good enough.

Turning around to face him, Gilgamesh reels Ardyn in closer by the hand, bending his knees and settling into the rhythm. Unlike Ardyn, who feels boxy and uncoordinated—woefully not drunk enough to _not be_ self-conscious—it’s obvious immediately that Gilgamesh has an amazing sense of rhythm.

Gilgamesh seems to know exactly when to sway one way or the other, when to slow, with how much deftness and force to swing his hips. He doesn’t miss a single beat, smiling all the while, completely in his element. The flashing lights do wonderful things to his skin, reflecting over the beads of sweat that have formed around his hairline and trickle down his neck. All in all, Gilgamesh is completely in his element here. Even sweaty and bounding around, not a hair looks out of place and not a step is misplaced.

Ardyn, on the other hand… trying not to step on Gilgamesh’s feet is about the best he can do.

Undeterred, Gilgamesh closes in, holding Ardyn’s hips steady. It’s so intimate a touch, so different from holding hands or hugging.

Swallowing hard, Ardyn tries to let go and ease into Gilgamesh’s rhythm. Gilgamesh’s hands, the anchors on his body, help guide him into it. While not wise, perhaps, to tune out the vibrations of the bass and the pops of the synth, Ardyn simply makes himself focus on the man before him, holding him. The way the blue lights wash over his dark skin, the way the whites of his eyes and teeth gleam in the darkness.

Almost imperceptibly, Gilgamesh moves closer, slotting a thigh between Ardyn’s. Not so close that they’re grinding, but the contact makes Ardyn’s heart skip a good few beats. Those large hands of his guide Ardyn into position, helping him to square his hips, bend his knees, tense his core. Gilgamesh encourages Ardyn to hold onto his own hips, Ardyn’s palms clammy and slick with sweat on the denim. They rock together, Gilgamesh to the rhythm and Ardyn to Gilgamesh, dazed almost by the weight of Gilgamesh’s hold.

Gilgamesh leans in, his breath hot on Ardyn’s neck. It comes out in little and not so little puffs, Gilgamesh clearly exerting himself with his dance.

Ardyn watches the beads of sweat that trickle down Gilgamesh’s neck and clavicle, into his loose shirt. Suddenly, he has a very different fear at the forefront of his mind.

As the chorus reaches its apex, Gilgamesh runs his hands—palms burning—up Ardyn’s chest.

Ardyn gasps at the contact. He lets go of Gilgamesh’s hips in his surprise, something Gilgamesh takes advantage of by turning around—done in one smooth motion, not a hint of awkwardness with their tangled legs—and now, it seems like Gilgamesh is playing an entirely different game.

Every shift and slide makes Ardyn’s pants feel tighter. He’s going to embarrass himself, he knows it. But Gilgamesh doesn’t show any signs of stopping, in fact just the opposite, he’s getting _more_ into it. Ardyn can’t begin to imagine what the car ride home is going to be like— _God he should have driven himself_ —but Gilgamesh reaches back, tangles his fingers through Ardyn’s hair.

He mouths something, a single word, but Ardyn can’t make it out over the bass, reverberating through the floor. Gilgamesh is smiling, and he takes Ardyn’s hand in his and brings it to his abdomen. Hot, soft, but an undeniable layer of muscle underneath that’s firm and flexible in ways Ardyn never thought to consider. Gilgamesh mouths two more words, lost upon deaf ears, then turns his face away, returning his attentions to grinding into Ardyn’s now undeniable erection.

There’s no way Gilgamesh _can’t_ feel it. This is the closest thing to sex Ardyn’s experienced in years and it has him spinning. He’s no longer dancing, no longer even trying. Just a sweating, overwhelmed mess in the thick of it, letting Gilgamesh grind and pop as he pleases, holding Ardyn’s hand on his stomach, the muscles tensing and flexing as he moves.

The song transitions into something faster and Gilgamesh leans back, his lips mere inches from Ardyn’s. “Wanna get out of here?” This time his words are perfectly audible.

It’s all Ardyn can do to nod.

\---

Salt. Grease. Fat.

It’s amazing what a little bit of fast food can do to mend things. At least after a night of clubbing, that is.

Time seemed to move in odd lurches after leaving the club. Ardyn can recall them walking back to Gilgamesh’s car, that odd, pigeon toed walk he had to do due to his erection, then piling in, clicking in seatbelts. In what feels like a blip later they’re seated at a brightly lit McDonalds, two trays of salt laden fries and McDoubles between them.

It’s only an afterthought that Ardyn feels a hint of disappointment that ‘get out of here’ meant to find food instead of either of their places. Something for the best, obviously, Ardyn corrects himself. He can only imagine Gilgamesh’s horror at feeling how aroused he was, or maybe he didn’t feel it all. He was certainly into dancing and the music. Ardyn decides not to bring it up. The unwelcome guest is gone, anyway, blessedly seeing itself out on the drive over.

It’s a tawdry detail Ardyn knows he’ll obsess over tomorrow, but for now he’s still got enough of a buzz from his drink and Gilgamesh’s touch to keep him present.

“I had no idea you could dance like that.” Ardyn pops a fry into his mouth.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” Grinning, Gilgamesh takes a sip from his drink, the dark fizzy pop rising up the straw. “I over corrected in undergrad. Wasn’t a Saturday night I wasn’t at some club doing something dumb.”

It’s understandable. A strict upbringing in a conservative country. Gilgamesh was probably chomping at the bit for that freedom, and Ardyn’s glad he exercised it so freely (and, seemingly, got it out of his system).

“I don’t think I’ve danced like that in… since never. Last time period was the homecoming dance in 9th grade,” Ardyn muses. “And let me tell you, that was arms out, no bodies touching, no funny business.”

“You went with someone?”

“Lisa Chong.” Ardyn sighs through his nose. “But between you and me, I really wanted to go with Jason Ogilvie.”

Gilgamesh chuckles lightly at that. “You knew, even then?” _That you like men._

Ardyn nods. “You?”

Gilgamesh shakes his head ‘no.’ “There was a lot I didn’t know when I was that age.”

Ardyn pushes a few fries around on his tray. It’s a hairy subject they’ve come to, but he can’t stop himself from asking his next question. Twisting the Heineken wristband from the club with his fingers in his lap, he presses on. “Do… your parents know?”

Gilgamesh steals a few fries from Ardyn, popping them in his mouth. “Yours?”

Ardyn winces lightly. Clearly this isn’t a line of conversation Gilgamesh is eager to pursue further. “If they haven’t caught on yet… well.” He shrugs. “At least they have the photo of me and Lisa Chong and our matching corsages.”

“Care to show me?” Gilgamesh has an eyebrow raised suggestively. “You said to ask when you’ve had a drink or two, remember?”

“Oh, God, no. I’m definitely not drunk enough for that.”

“A shame we left the club so soon, then.”

Ardyn’s cheeks go deep red, the memory of his arousal brought back to the forefront of his mind. Quickly, he tries to change the subject. “I gotta say, though, you really surprised me back there.”

“Same goes for you. Thought you were going to leave, if I’m being honest.” Gilgamesh brings a hand to the tabletop. “Glad you didn’t.”

Ardyn brings a hand to the tabletop, also. Inches from Gilgamesh’s, wanting to reach out for him but with the buzz fading with each second, not quite brave enough. “Me, too.”

Eyes meeting, they share a little awkward laugh. Some wall—maybe a big one—was chipped away at tonight, a fissure exposed. Gilgamesh unwraps his hamburger, then Ardyn. It’s shocking how natural it all feels.

\---

In another odd slip of time, suddenly they’re back on Ardyn’s street, the headlights of Gilgamesh’s car sweeping over the sleeping houses.

Both are quite tired now, Ardyn even dozing off a few times on the drive back, waking with a start when his head bobs down enough. Gilgamesh slows the car to a stop in front of Ardyn’s house, but doesn’t cut the engine.

Sleepily, Ardyn looks from to the dark front windows of his house then back to Gilgamesh, who has one hand on the steering wheel, another on the shifter.

“You gonna be okay?”

Ardyn nods ‘yes,’ feeling rather like a child. He can remember feeling totally at ease like this, rocked to sleep in his parents’ car on the drive home from somewhere. All things considered, it’s a welcome way to end the evening.

“You sure?”

Ardyn nods ‘yes’ again, already thinking of nothing else but his soft bed. “Thank you. This was…” he pauses, trying to find the right word. _Terrifying? Validating? Eye-opening?_ “Fun.”

Gilgamesh chuckles lightly, finally putting the car in park. “‘Fun.’ Okay, I can take ‘fun.’”

Ardyn opens his door and has a foot on the ground before he thinks to say something more. “Drive safe. Text me when you get home?”

“Will do,” Gilgamesh nods.

The car door shuts with a dull thud and Ardyn walks through the dark to his front door, the automatic porch light flipping on as he climbs up the stairs. It’s only after Gilgamesh drives off, his tail lights disappearing down the block, that Ardyn realizes he might’ve wanted to come up. If only he’d thought to ask.


	5. Feliciano

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans are made and plans are broken.

What Ardyn had expected to manifest into a cold lump of shame covered by almost imperceptibly small needle pricks of self-hatred from their outing… simply didn’t.

Ardyn wakes up the following morning and stares up at the egg white ceiling for a time, processing the evening’s course of events, but to his great shock, the memories only conjure a giddy sense of delight in his belly. He knows he must look a fool, grinning to himself with his legs twisted in the sheets, but he’s never felt so… it’s too soon to say ‘sure,’ Ardyn knows, so he simply opts for ‘happy.’

Setting romantic context aside, just being around Gilgamesh, just being his friend—it’s enough to give him fits. A bubbly high. A sense of excitement Ardyn can’t remember feeling since being in high school when everything was exciting simply on the pretense of being ‘a first.’

_This should be enough._

The thought creeps in through the slits and cracks of his happiness and tempers Ardyn’s grin to a muted line.

_This is more than you thought you’d ever get. Don’t mess it up and end up with nothing._

Ardyn inhales deeply through his nose, holds it, and exhales through his mouth. It’s painful to word in such a way, even to himself, but Ardyn realizes he’d rather have a friend than ruin things trying to get a lover.

It’s not as if being just friends is a letdown or a consolation prize, Ardyn assures himself as he gets out of bed, much to the delight of Belit (who is currently chirping up a storm on the other side of the bedroom door). Simply being a part of Gilgamesh’s life, a member of his inner circle, if you will, is plenty.

The idea doesn’t hurt too much, and as Ardyn gets ready for the day it begins to feel right. More right than all this constantly wanting more and letting it drive him crazy, anyway.

_Friends._

That’s something Ardyn can do.

\---

The next few weeks pass like a blur.

The mostly mild heat of June gives way to the oppressive mugginess of July, the sunshiny days offering much in the way of companionship between Ardyn and Gilgamesh. Mornings, when both are in their offices, are often shared over coffee; afternoons are often spent together over lunch or a stack of books in the library. Evenings, too, sometimes bring them together—sipping drinks on Ardyn’s porch or strolling through campus’ greenery in the muted warmth once the sun disappears below the horizon.

It’s comfortable and it’s easy, the ‘click’ between them undeniable but so wonderfully stress-free now that Ardyn chooses to interpret it as nothing more than camaraderie.

The town seems to quiet even more—if at all possible—as the holiday weekend approaches. Ardyn’s never been one for celebrating the Fourth in full force—public fireworks are always too crowded, no one ever seems to be around to warrant going all out with a cookout—but the urge strikes him this year. If doing something for the holiday is new for Ardyn, there’s an even better chance it’s new to Gilgamesh, after all.

When Ardyn was just a kid, he spent one Fourth of July with his parents out on Lake Huron in a rented cabin, the entire weekend spent between the cool lake water and the top of a thick picnic blanket, watching fireworks explode in the air. Thinking about that time now gives Ardyn a bone deep ache of nostalgia—something he wants to share with Gilgamesh.

He makes the ask easily enough. A weekend on the eastern side of the state to see the lake and get out of town for the holiday. It doesn’t take Gilgamesh but a second to accept the invitation, beaming at the promise of seeing one of these so-called ‘Great Lakes’ in person. With technology at their combined fingertips, just a few taps later they’ve got an Airbnb booked and their itinerary planned, their overnight bags to be packed that evening.

Ardyn has a permanent swarm of butterflies in his stomach leading up to their trip, his head a mix of excitement for everything to come and nervousness about being so completely alone with Gilgamesh. Somehow he manages to sleep through the night before they leave, though, and wakes before his alarm, clear headed.

The only worry on his mind is Belit gorging herself on the weekend’s supply of dry food and not having anything to tide her over, something he doesn’t miss as he backs out of his driveway and heads off to pick up Gilgamesh.

\---

It’s nothing but cracked asphalt and thick greenery, the number of potholes decreasing and trees increasing rapidly as they leave Detroit, as Ardyn drives due north up M-25.

He can’t help but steal glances here and there at Gilgamesh in the passenger seat, the wind whipping through the loose strands of his dark hair that he neglected to pull back into his ponytail. Ardyn’s been smiling all morning, since he pulled up to Gilgamesh’s apartment building, since he piled into his car, hell, since they last got gas. Gilgamesh has become such a familiar presence in his life in the past few weeks, but always in the context of the university. To be with him here, hours away from Ann Arbor, Lake Huron on their right (though they can’t quite see it yet), the heat of summer high on their necks and shoulders, every little interaction feels completely new.

Gilgamesh fiddled with the radio for a bit when they first got on the road in earnest, after stopping through the McDonalds drive-thru for coffee and hash browns. Ardyn had smiled to himself for remembering to ask for the proper amount of cream and sugar in Gilgamesh’s coffee—a stark contrast to his jet black cup.

Later Ardyn belatedly remembers the embarrassing _A Mediterranean Odyssey_ CD he left in the console and watches Gilgamesh’s hand like a hawk, praying he won’t switch over from the radio. He lets out an audible sigh of relief when Gilgamesh settles on a classic rock station and takes to blowing on his still piping hot coffee.

They make good time. Even being a holiday, it seems this stretch of the state has avoided the usual throngs of people. It’s not much longer before they get their first glimpses of the crystalline blue water, Gilgamesh perking up in his seat to take it all in. Ardyn doesn’t even try to fight the smile that spreads across his face.

Ardyn had planned on stopping by their Airbnb in White Rock first, to drop off their things and freshen up a bit, then do some sightseeing or find food, but he finds himself pulling off the highway at the next beach access sign. The tires crunch on the packed dirt and gravel, Ardyn momentarily regretting the impulsive action as he drives deep into forest, down the windy road to the lake, but Gilgamesh is vibrating with excitement, not unlike a child. He can call AAA if they get stuck, Ardyn tells himself and drives on. Besides, this way it feels more like an adventure—a jaunt into the unknown. Ardyn was already sure that this escape would be a memorable one; this is just icing on the cake.

Thankfully they don’t get stuck and none of the tires go flat, and Ardyn pulls out into a clearing, both dazed by the sudden brightness the thick foliage had shielded them from. Lake Huron expands before them, the water lapping at the shoreline, and Ardyn can barely get the car in park before Gilgamesh is opening the door, ready to meet the expanse of freshwater.

There’s no one around for miles, just rocky beach and the thick, swaying trees, the water lapping up on the pebbles and sand. There aren’t any white capped waves, but the water is moving and is a brilliant, crystalline blue. This place looks untouched by time, and almost like the end of the world, the shore beyond obscured by the horizon. Blue of the water meeting blue of the sky.

The rocks crunch under their feet as Ardyn leads Gilgamesh to the waterline. As soon as they’re past the worst of it and sandaled soles meet the damp, well-packed sand, Ardyn pauses just to smile at Gilgamesh’s awe. He doesn’t think Gilgamesh has ever been to the sea, and flying over the ocean certainly doesn’t count. While Lake Huron hardly compares in size to the Atlantic Ocean, or even the Mediterranean Sea for that matter, from their perspective it’s enormous, the Canadian shore on the other side invisible to their eyes.

It’s hot, despite the breeze, and Ardyn’s hands are on the hem of his shirt, hauling it up and over his head before he pauses to consider his actions. He tosses it to the sand as he toes out of his sandals, then hesitates to disrobe further when he notices Gilgamesh is staring.  

Swim trunks.

They’d both brought swim trunks.

They’re in the car, they could go run back and get them. Ardyn’s face goes hot with embarrassment, he hadn’t thought about it for an instant. Gilgamesh must think him insane, to just go undressing in front of him and in public—

Gilgamesh toes off his sandals, one foot at a time, digging his toes into the cool, damp sand. He glances to the lake, then pulls his shirt up and over his head and tosses it to the sand near Ardyn’s.

Ardyn barely manages to suppress the gasp at seeing Gilgamesh’s bare chest for the first time. An expanse of dark skin, a dusting of black hair covering his chest and torso, trailing down to where it disappears beneath the waist of his shorts. Ardyn feels the barest hint of embarrassment in comparison—he’s practically translucent, hasn’t had a truly defined muscle since he ran track in high school—but the shy smile on Gilgamesh’s face smothers those thoughts quickly enough.

"It's okay to swim here?" Gilgamesh asks, albeit belatedly.

"Yeah. No lifeguard on duty, though," Ardyn replies.

Gilgamesh's hands rest on the waistband of his shorts. "I think we'll be okay." He pops the button and unzips the fly, then pushes the denim down to his ankles. Gilgamesh grins cheekily as he steps out of the crumpled shorts, his modesty perfectly maintained by his plaid boxers, but Ardyn can't help but balk slightly at the brazenness.

A part of him is also filled with a childish determination not to be one-upped.

Quickly shucking his shorts, Ardyn kicks them off, then, before he loses courage, shoves down his navy briefs, nearly tripping and falling on his ass as he tries to remove them while running to the water. Gilgamesh gets a good eyeful of his bare ass as Ardyn's feet slap against the water. It's cold, though not unpleasantly so, and he wades through it until it reaches his knees where he promptly plops down. The water laps gently at his waist and it's a welcome relief from the heat now permeating his cheeks.

Ardyn gathers loose fistfuls of soft sand, parts impressed with his sudden act of teenage rebellion and realizing that as he entered the water nude, eventually he’ll have to leave it in the same way. He steals a quick look over his shoulder just in time to get a glimpse of Gilgamesh pulling down his boxers and Ardyn quickly looks back to the horizon. He’s not sure if Gilgamesh stripping down to join him makes matters better or worse. Ardyn’s heartbeat is a constant thrum in his ears, masked only by the sound of Gilgamesh’s heavy, sloshing footsteps behind him.

Gilgamesh lowers himself beside him, a few feet away so as not to be _too_ close, but close enough to talk. The water doesn’t come up quite as high on him as it does Ardyn, but the tension gradually eases out of both sets of shoulders and spines.

“I forgot I packed my trunks,” Ardyn says, followed by a self-deprecating laugh.

Gilgamesh looks back at him, offering one of the shiest, painfully young-looking smiles Ardyn thinks he’s ever seen in his life. “Me, too.” He swirls the clear water with a hand, then brings a droplet to his mouth, licking the edge of his hand like the lake water was an errant drip from a melting ice cream cone. “Not one bit salty.”

Ardyn laughs softly at that. “What, you didn’t believe me?”

“I just had to be sure,” Gilgamesh grins. There’s a mischievous flicker in his eye and he slices a hand across the surface of the water, splashing Ardyn’s chest.

Well, Ardyn can’t just let that kind of brazen attack go unanswered, now can he?

He retaliates, pushing water with both hands towards Gilgamesh, who is already launching a counter attack. They’re both laughing, feet kicking up the fine sand as they get one another thoroughly wet. Before long damp strands of hair are sticking to cheeks and foreheads, and both resemble wet dogs—soaked and thoroughly sated after an exciting trip to the beach.

Water and sand still around them once more and they share a contented smile. They should head back to the car soon; they don’t want to miss their check-in window at the Airbnb. Besides, they’ve both only had breakfast today. Ardyn can’t speak for Gilgamesh, but he’s half-starved.

Ardyn clears his throat, awkwardly pulling his pale legs in and maneuvering himself up into a squat. Gilgamesh understands and turns away so Ardyn can stand and head back to the shore first, cupping his genitals like a flummoxed co-ed in one of those boner comedies that were all the rage in the early 2000s.

He’s on the shore, pulling up his briefs and doing his utmost not to let the fabric touch his sandy feet when Ardyn hears Gilgamesh approach, his powerful legs pushing through the water. Ardyn looks down, allowing Gilgamesh to pull on his boxers, but then their eyes meet again.

“Towels are in the car,” Ardyn says weakly. It’s not an impassable distance, but with a good amount of jagged rock to traverse with wet and gritty feet, it’s not a pleasant idea.

Gilgamesh plucks his shirt from the sand and shakes it out lightly. “We’ll survive.” He wads the shirt up and rubs it over his damp skin. Cotton’s no substitute for terry cloth, sure, but it gets the job done well enough.

Ardyn follows suit with his own shirt, wicking away the wetness. Before long they’re both wringing out their sodden shirts, side by side, their shorts warm from the midday sun. Though both shirts are now free of excess water, they’re thoroughly soaked so wearing them makes little sense. Instead they tread back over the rocks to the car shirtless, then spread the wet clothes across the backseat to dry.

After only a mild amount of horseplay they’re back in the car. Ardyn has to remind himself not to stare at Gilgamesh’s bare chest as he looks over his shoulder to back up the car, but does allow himself a few quick glances.

The drive back up the windy road feels far shorter than it was on the way down to the beach, and once more Ardyn gives his thanks for not getting stuck. A short time later they’re back on the smooth asphalt into town, windows cracked and warm air flowing around them. Gilgamesh leans in to turn on the radio again, classic rock once more filtering through the cabin.

Ardyn squeezes the leather wrapped steering wheel harder, his eyes tracing up Gilgamesh’s arm from his thick fingers to his shapely bicep. His eyes flit back to the road before he’s detected and he wishes that he could have a bird’s eye view of them here in his Dodge.

_Do they look like a couple? Just two ‘friends,’ shirtless, hours away from home?_

He doesn’t allow himself to linger on the thought much longer, scolding himself for even wondering. Instead, Ardyn focuses on the sound of the engine, the trees whishing by, the guitar riffs that sound a touch distorted, as if his speakers are underwater. The sun is warm on his shoulders and back, so warm he feels heavy and sleepy, but they’re almost arriving at town. There will be time for a nap soon enough.

In Ardyn’s mental haste to try and _not_ think about Gilgamesh, he completely misses the way Gilgamesh looks at him now, chest swelling with a gentle admiration, the soft skin around his eyes creased slightly with a tenderness Ardyn would have thought they both were too old for.

By the time the car’s tires are crunching on the gravel outside of their quaint reservation for the night, the look is replaced with one entirely pleasant, but lacking that nuance. The moment has passed. Ardyn didn’t look. He’s none the wiser.

\---

They spend the rest of the afternoon exploring the small town after checking in, finding the downtown not unlike Ann Arbor’s. Quaint shops, quirky souvenirs, plenty of food. It’s not as busy as Ardyn expected it to be with the holiday, but he’s glad for it.

Just after sundown they pile back into Ardyn’s car and join a procession of likeminded motorists headed to a great field just outside of town. There really isn’t much in the way of organized parking, so Ardyn just finds a place to cut the engine and they pile out. After grabbing a folded up blanket from the trunk the two head out into the field amidst the other people and chirping crickets.

Gilgamesh helps him spread out the blanket over the grass, then both take off their shoes before settling down on top of it. Ardyn always adored the feeling of lying outside, feeling the cool earth beneath, though muted by the thick cotton of the blanket. It doesn’t take Gilgamesh but a minute to seemingly be of the same mind, and he sprawls out next to him.

The din of nearby conversations, crickets, and the far-off crackly sound of folk guitar strumming from someone’s car radio provide the backdrop for the two of them, who stare up at the perfectly clear sky. Everything really is perfect… then, ever so gently, Gilgamesh’s pinky brushes up against Ardyn’s and, instead of shying from it or Gilgamesh pulling back, acknowledging it as accident, Ardyn wraps his finger around Gilgamesh’s. Somehow now, things are more perfect now.

Ardyn doesn’t dare look, though, not at Gilgamesh. Rather, his attentions are pulled to the magnificent display up above—explosions of color, red, white, and blue, sparkling and trailing and popping in midair. All around them the crowd _oohs_ and _awes_ , clapping at the display. Ardyn, too, finds himself gasping equally in parts at the fireworks and at the way Gilgamesh’s finger squeezes his.

At times, everything that’s transpired between them has felt so ephemeral—a cliché mirrored by the brilliant explosions and sudden disappearances of color in the inky black sky—but here and now, firm earth beneath him, Gilgamesh holding him, Ardyn’s never felt like such a fool for thinking he’d could possibly be satisfied by the notion of just being ‘friends.’

\---

They shake the blanket out together when the show ends, then fold it up neatly corner to corner, end to end. There’s a bit of traffic to contend with on the way out—an inevitability with everyone just parking here and there in the field—but soon enough they’re back at their lodging for the night, more bed and breakfast than sleek rental one might typically expect from the platform Ardyn had used to book it.

Their belongings are already upstairs, them having dropped them off earlier in the day, in their respective bedrooms. It almost feels like a waste, Ardyn thinks, to just go their separate ways and go to bed, but he can’t deny that the drive out has him tired. Gilgamesh, too, has that thoroughly satisfied look of exhaustion about him.

They climb the stairs, Gilgamesh leading the way, then head to their respective rooms, one right next to the other.

“See you tomorrow, then,” Ardyn says, his hand on the doorknob.

Gilgamesh smiles back. “Good night.”

Ardyn’s little bedroom has its own attached bathroom, which he uses to take a quick, cold shower. The bedroom itself is cloyingly hot, even with the windows open as high as they’ll go. Having not seen the layout of Gilgamesh’s room, Ardyn can’t help but wonder as he settles into bed a short time later, if Gilgamesh isn’t directly on the other side of the wall. Part of him is tempted to knock, or tap out a little beat, if only to see if Gilgamesh would return the call.

_And then what?_

Ardyn inhales sharply at his own question.

_And then what, indeed?_

Closing his eyes, Ardyn summons the images of Gilgamesh’s broad chest to his mind’s eye, the feeling of Gilgamesh holding his finger so surely. It isn’t right to conflate everything, but Ardyn can’t seem to stop himself—an indulgence he’s done so well to keep himself from having, a fantasy he’s sworn to deny himself. Those large, hot hands, sliding over his own pale chest, Ardyn mapping out every detail of Gilgamesh’s back and shoulders. How Gilgamesh’s pink tongue would feel, lapping over his Adam’s apple, how it would taste.

Sleep is hard to find tonight, and not entirely because of the room being so hot.

\---

It takes Ardyn a few moments to remember where he is the next morning, especially given that he awakes to the sound of Gilgamesh’s deep voice.

Blinking the sleep out of his eyes, Ardyn pushes himself up and, curiosity getting the better of him, slots his ear up against the wall, the muffled sound of Gilgamesh’s voice coming from his neighboring room. It’s not right to eavesdrop, Ardyn knows, but Gilgamesh is speaking Persian, the accented words bearing little meaning to Ardyn’s ears.

Quickly he abandons his spy mission and gets ready for the day, gathering his few belongings and stuffing them back in his overnight bag. They’ll probably find some breakfast in town, maybe wander a bit more then head back home. Feels like their little escape ended in the blink of an eye.

Ardyn has his bag in the trunk by the time Gilgamesh emerges, his own belongings in hand, jaw tight. It’s clear something’s amiss, and Ardyn’s mind jumps to the obvious—their horseplay yesterday, the touches—god forbid if he heard Ardyn eavesdropping.

“Can I ask you for a favor?” Gilgamesh asks before Ardyn has a chance to get a word in.

Trying to maintain a thin veneer of calm, Ardyn holds open the trunk for Gilgamesh to slot his bag in. “Of course.” The little shake in his voice gives him away completely.

Gilgamesh sighs, frustrated. “I really hate to throw a wrench in things, but… Any chance you can swing down to Detroit? Like… now?”

It doesn’t take a genius to connect the dots. “Consulate…?”

Nodding, Gilgamesh makes to close the trunk. “Just got an update on my visa. Need to head over and fill out some paperwork.”

“Nothing bad, I hope…?”

“Just annoying,” Gilgamesh assures, though there’s an undeniable line of tension running through his shoulders.

Ardyn nods. “Of course. Let’s… Are you hungry? We can get something to go?”

“Yeah, thanks.” Gilgamesh pauses, not quite making eye contact, his gaze flitting over the car to the trees, anywhere but the man next to him. “I’m sorry.”

“What do you have to be sorry about?” Ardyn fights to keep his voice even-keeled, but frankly the way Gilgamesh is sounding has him terrified. He always knew, in the back of his head, that Gilgamesh’s visa kerfuffle is the only reason he’s here in the first place, and that it was something Gilgamesh was trying to sort out… in order to leave.

To leave.

Not indefinitely, no, but to go half a world away and—

“I just wish we had more time, I guess,” Gilgamesh says softly. “Being at their mercy is just…”

Ardyn brings his keys out of his front pocket, the metal tinkling softly. “Man makes plans and God laughs. Or bureaucrats do, I suppose.”

Gilgamesh offers a beleaguered smile. “Exactly.”

One drive-thru breakfast later they’re back on the road, only headed due south this time. Gilgamesh doesn’t seem to be one for fiddling with the radio this time around, rather he curls up in the passenger seat, resting the side of his head against the window. It’s only a matter of time before he’s asleep.

With just the quietude of the road and the soft sunlight dappling over them, it isn’t long before Ardyn steals a look at his passenger. He does his utmost to assure himself that whatever that phone call means, whatever this paperwork is, it’s not enough to end whatever _this_ is.

Sometimes, though, one’s ‘utmost’ just isn’t enough.


	6. Store Bought

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trouble in paradise.

One hour becomes two. Two becomes three.

This wasn’t how Ardyn intended to spend his second full day with Gilgamesh, refilling his cup of black coffee at Starbucks: watching the bankers and bureaucrats go about their day. His phone lies inert on the table before him, the last text from Gilgamesh is from hours ago, letting him know that he got into the consulate okay.

Ardyn tries not to think about it, he tries not to think about anything at all. But with everyone so active all around him, headed here and there, and him just stuck in place, it’s impossible.

It’s not that a white hot panic has taken over Ardyn, sending him into a downward spiral, jumping to every conclusion and taking every possibility as a finality. Rather, the very plausible near future—Gilgamesh leaving for a few months—settles over him like a blanket. An added layer that’s unwelcome in the summer warmth, but not so uncomfortable, once he gets used to it.

Realistically, Ardyn knows this isn't forever. That he’s lived 99% of his life without Gilgamesh. That this isn’t the time or place to be so dramatic.

But Ardyn still can’t shake the inherent disappointment this turn brings. Surely Gilgamesh leaving isn’t enough to put a halt to things, to undo all the good that’s been done. But thousands of miles between them certainly doesn’t help, either.

It’s not until late afternoon when Gilgamesh emerges from silvery elevator doors, and Ardyn’s knee is bobbing nigh uncontrollably from the amount of caffeine he’s ingested. Wanting to do anything but hear some terrible news—as if Gilgamesh has decided to leave the very next day—his first thought is to ask if Gilgamesh is hungry, if he doesn’t want a coffee (though Ardyn’s still buzzed out of his mind).

Luckily, Gilgamesh declines the offer of any food or coffee and the two head back to the parking garage, side by side. Ardyn keeps himself braced, waiting for that shoe to drop, for the revelation to come. The stark announcement that this chapter—albeit brief—has ended. The promises of calling and texting and emailing, the assurances that their friendship will endure. And then, the slow, inevitable crawl back to polite acquaintances, eventually to strangers.

It’s not until they pile back into the car that Ardyn realizes just how hard he’s been gripping his keys, the teeth leaving a jagged, red imprint in his palm.

And yet, that shoe never drops. That revelation never comes.

The drive back home is relatively quiet, and Ardyn doesn’t have the heart (nor the courage) to come right out and ask. Especially, as he comes to think, that if Gilgamesh isn’t freely offering the information, perhaps the turn is not  _ that _ he’s going, but rather that he’s still  _ unable _ to go—a prospect that he clearly finds frustrating and disheartening. The idea (selfishly, pathetically, disgustingly) puts some wind back in Ardyn’s sails while simultaneously making him feel like a prick.

Ardyn drops Gilgamesh off in front of his apartment complex not knowing what to say, and spends the rest of the day at a loss for words. Come nighttime, his phone lights up with a text from Gilgamesh about grabbing lunch the next day ( _ My treat, after all that driving you did _ ) and, contemplating how to word his eager acceptance, Ardyn wonders if perhaps not raising the issue at all is simply the best course of action.

Gilgamesh will tell him what’s going on when he’s ready. Ardyn trusts in that.

Once deciding this, it’s almost funny how quickly things slip back into routine and normalcy. With no updates or game changers from Gilgamesh, Ardyn has little else to do but go back to the way things were—with travels and studies a distant concept.  In time, the ‘inevitability’ of Gilgamesh leaving slinks back into a ‘maybe,’ and then further into the back of Ardyn’s mind where the whole whirlwind of rushing to the consulate is no more than a funny story.

When Gilgamesh invites Ardyn to his place for dinner one sticky hot August night, all that fizzy anxiety is no more than a distant memory. Ardyn refills Belit’s water dish and grabs the chilled bottle of white from the counter on his way out the door, head and heart swimming with anything but dread.

Rather—this being the first time he’s ever been inside Gilgamesh’s apartment—his stomach is twisting into knots over just  _ what _ Gilgamesh has planned.

\---

It’s an older building, probably constructed sometime in the mid-seventies, boxy and stuccoed in all its glory. The street is quiet and lined with a few other complexes, but mostly single family homes, a good number dark and likely unoccupied during the summer. 

It doesn’t take Gilgamesh but a minute to appear on the other side of the glass door to let Ardyn in after texting him. They hug briefly in the soft lobby light, Ardyn finding comfort in the way that Gilgamesh’s heart is beating out of his chest, not unlike his. Up close, Gilgamesh smells of rosemary and thyme, a sharp hint of pepper—a hint of the meal to come.

Gilgamesh leads Ardyn up a creaky iron wrought staircase to the second floor of the building, then down a narrow hall to his apartment. He unlocks the door with the quick turn of his key and the smell of dinner in the oven hits Ardyn, making his mouth water. A beef roast, accompanying vegetables, the sweet, bready smell of pastry. 

Ushered inside, it takes Ardyn a moment, then, to take in just how  _ tiny _ and sparsely decorated Gilgamesh’s apartment is. The compact and dated—albeit fragrant (and blazing hot)—kitchen is directly to the right, and beyond it is a small living area, with a sunken loveseat and coffee table. There’s a dark room leading off of it, presumably to the bed and bathrooms. 

It feels a lot like how Ardyn remembers his own apartment being years ago in grad school, but somehow it’s hard to reconcile the bareness of it all with Gilgamesh—someone he’s never suspected of having to live frugally or going without. 

Weakly, Ardyn offers the bottle of wine he brought to Gilgamesh, who takes it with a smile. “You didn’t have to,” Gilgamesh starts, “but I’m glad you did.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Ardyn smoothes his palms down his thighs, damp from the bottle’s perspiration. 

Gilgamesh waves his hand dismissively as he hunts for the corkscrew. “No, no, it’s all ready. Just make yourself at home.”

Ardyn knows he shouldn’t feel so awkward, but he can’t help it. He wanders over to the loveseat and, after hesitating slightly, sits down, immediately caught off guard by how little support the cushion offers. With a few feet and the waist-high counter separating him from the heat of the oven, the living room is surprisingly cool as a light breeze wafts in through the cracked window.

The rummaging continues from the kitchen, and Ardyn finds himself looking around the blank walls, struggling to find something to remark on. There’s no television—though that’s probably the norm these days for the younger generation—no posters or framed pictures, either. He glances over into the dark bedroom, and can make out the fuzzy outline of Gilgamesh’s bed, then averts his gaze, as if he’s violating Gilgamesh’s privacy. He can’t help but wonder if the bedroom has more personal touches to it than this sparse area—and if it does, just what they are. 

Finally, to keep his mind from roaming too far, Ardyn gets up and heads back to the kitchen. “Allow me.” He plucks the finally-found corkscrew from Gilgamesh’s hands and opens the bottle of wine with relative ease.

“Smartly done.” Gilgamesh provides two glass cups. “I’m embarrassed to say I don’t have wine glasses.”

“No, no,” Ardyn reassures, pouring a healthy amount in each cup. “Can’t say I provided the best pairing for beef.” He gestures to the oven with his chin. 

“I wouldn’t know any better,” Gilgamesh laughs. “It’s the thought that counts.”

Ardyn passes Gilgamesh his cup, and takes his own in hand. “Indeed.” They clink the cups together then take a sip, the wine crisp and cool and much needed in the midst of the cloying oven heat. 

From there they work as a team, Gilgamesh taking the food out of the oven as Ardyn readies the plates and flatware. His eyes glitter as the spread is pulled from the oven tray by tray: golden brown Beef Wellington, perfectly roasted potatoes and carrots, crispy brussels sprouts. Despite his all too tiny kitchen (and restricted budget), Gilgamesh spared no expense, it seems. 

Ardyn helps dole out servings of the vegetables on both plates as Gilgamesh transfers the beautifully brown pastry covered roast to a cutting board, then, chest puffed slightly, slices into it revealing a perfectly pink center. 

“You make all of this from scratch?” Ardyn asks as he holds each plate for a slice of the main dish.

Gilgamesh hums in the affirmative. “First time, though, so don’t hold your breath.”

“If it smells  _ this _ good, I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

Gilgamesh’s cheeks take on the faintest hint of color at the compliment.

Plates and cups in hand, they settle in on the floor around the coffee table, not without Gilgamesh apologizing profusely about the lack of a real table and chairs. Ardyn assures him that it matters little, but only does the conversation change when they dig in, both trading a look of surprise and delight. 

After adding ‘being an amazing cook’ to the ever growing list of Gilgamesh’s charms, Ardyn has to take a moment to mentally thank the powers that be for letting him be here tonight.

“How much did this all cost you? Really?” Ardyn asks as he takes another bite of the Beef Wellington, savoring the perfectly seasoned roast and delicious pate. 

“My lips are sealed.” Gilgamesh deftly dodges the question, smiling over the rim of his cup. 

“I mean—it’s not that I don’t appreciate it but. You didn’t have to go all out.”

“Yeah, but I wanted to.” 

Though Ardyn still has some concerns about Gilgamesh and his shoestring budget, he lets it slide. It feels decidedly nice to have someone want to treat him, anyway. When both plates are clean, Gilgamesh collects them and deposits them in the sink for later, then retrieves two ceramic dishes from the fridge. Two perfect servings of creme brulee, tops glistening with caramelized sugar, adorned with raspberries and a picturesque sprig of mint. 

“Gotta confess, these aren’t homemade,” Gilgamesh says as he hands Ardyn a spoon.

That matters little when Ardyn breaks the caramelized layer and gets a spoonful of the rich custard. Smooth, sweet, and vividly vanilla--everything Ardyn wants and then some. 

“I wanted to invite you over sooner.” Gilgamesh says softly, tapping the tip of his spoon on the yet unbroken surface of his creme brulee. 

Ardyn recognizes the tone of his voice all too well. Thick with regret, prickled with anxiety, but veiled  _ just  _ enough in the hopes that the listener won’t recognize it. 

Setting down his spoon, Ardyn folds his hands in his lap. “So why didn’t you?” He prays Gilgamesh won’t misinterpret it as an inquisition or a backhanded accusation. 

“It’s not… it’s not always easy,” Gilgamesh chuckles lightly, shaking his head. 

“What’s not easy?”

Gilgamesh weighs his next words carefully, rubbing his lips together. “It’s stupid.”

“I’m sure it’s not.”

“It is.”

“Try me.”

He takes a deep breath, his dark eyes settling on Ardyn. “I really like spending time with you,” he starts, watching Ardyn’s expression closely. “This summer has been… it's been great. Really.”

Ardyn can feel the ‘but’ coming and his stomach drops. 

“But, it’s been rough, too.”

Ardyn nods slowly, assumes he’s referring to the bureaucratic nightmare with his visa and stalled research. “Your visa…”

Gilgamesh blinks back at him, brows pushed together in a mix of what Ardyn can only describe as exasperation and disbelief. 

“Right. That.” Gilgamesh pushes himself up to his feet, collecting his untouched creme brulee. “Coming to terms with the fact that you don’t always get what you want.”

Ardyn watches in silence, confused and a tad afraid. He’s never seen Gilgamesh so upset, lashing out like a wounded animal. Gilgamesh opens the fridge door with a bit too much force and shoves his untouched dessert inside with a clatter of ceramic. “So I should just stop setting myself up for disappointment, right? I should do the smart thing for once in my life.”

“Gilgamesh, what are you talking about?” Ardyn gets to his feet, stumbling slightly over his feet. “What happened?”

“Absolutely nothing.” Gilgamesh tosses some dirty utensils into the sink, the sound making Ardyn jump. “Visa application went through and I’m leaving next week. But aside from that, absolutely nothing.”

The cold shock of it all hits Ardyn like a bucket of ice water. He just stands there, stunned, for a long moment on the other side of the kitchen counter. “Next week…?”

“I can drive myself, it’s fine.”

“No, I can—it’s just so sudden.”

“It’s what I’ve been waiting for.”

“Of course, just—I’m happy for you.”

“And?”

Shoulders sagging under an indeterminable sense of guilt, Ardyn avoids Gilgamesh’s gaze. “And…?”

What exactly does he want Ardyn to say? To do? The mental anguish over feeling he’s done  _ something _ wrong bites into him hard, but makes the pieces fit together no more nicely or cleanly. 

Gilgamesh lets the silence fill between them for a good minute, then sighs deeply through his nose. “I’m sorry. I’m being an ass. It  _ is _ sudden. I have a lot of loose ends I need to tie up before I go.”

“For how long?” Ardyn doesn’t quite have the courage to look him in the eye just yet, but he doesn’t stutter or stumble on his words. 

“Through the fall semester.”

_ Until January. Four full months and change.  _

“I… I see.”

Ardyn doesn’t really know what else to say to that, the prospect of Gilgamesh leaving still sinking in. The fears and anxieties of a few weeks ago were all but forgotten, and now, for them to be ripped back to relevancy out of nowhere?

He’s simply at a loss. 

Was this the only reason Gilgamesh had invited him here? To drop this bomb and get pissy about it? As if Ardyn being hurt and shocked at the suddenness of it all instead of being overjoyed is the wrong reaction?

Ardyn bites down on the inside of his cheek hard. A trick he adopted as a kid to distract himself, mostly from crying. 

“I can help you with the dishes,” he says, voice and throat tight. “And I’ll drive you to the airport.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

Gilgamesh scrunches his eyes shut as if trying to muster every fiber of self-restraint in his body. “I don’t want you to,” he manages, voice taut like a violin string. 

That does it. 

Ardyn spins round and collects his half-eaten dessert and their cups from the coffee table. Reeling, he nudges past Gilgamesh to deposit them into the sink with a  _ clatter _ , then hastily shoves his feet into his shoes. 

“Do the dishes yourself then,” he spits, “but don’t think for a second you’re leaving without a word and a goodbye. Forward me your flight info. Now.”

Were he not so distressed, Ardyn may have been proud of his professorial tone and sheer refusal to crumble, but on the inside Ardyn is breaking. He knows he can’t keep up the authoritative facade much longer, so he reaches for the door. 

“Thank you for dinner, but don’t think for an instant you’re getting your way.”

He leaves before Gilgamesh has the chance to get a word in edgewise. 

\---

Ardyn doesn’t think it’s possible to hate himself any more than he does right now. 

Somehow he makes it home, vision nearly blinded with tears and his hands doing an awful job of wiping them dry. 

Gilgamesh hates him. He can’t wait to get away. To have half a world between them and not have to see each other. 

Everything was a lie. No—the only one lying here is himself, Ardyn thinks. Gilgamesh, so friendly and trusting, taking pity on a lonely, middling, pathetic coworker. Ardyn knew he was making a terrible mistake in misreading the signals, in twisting them to suit his desperate fantasies. 

It’s no wonder Gilgamesh is ready to leave and be free of it. 

Free of  _ him.  _

Ardyn flies past Belit inside, up the stairs, and scrubs his face clean with scalding hot water in the bathroom. An utter mess, under eyes puffy from the tears, his entire face red and irritated, he wants nothing more than to scrub off the shamefully one sided attraction he’s manifested. To shuck off this miserable part of himself and just be someone else. 

There are a few concerned scratches on the door, Belit inquiring after his well-being. He feels worse for making her worry, if cats are even capable of it, and towels his face dry. 

Ardyn just stares back at his reflection in the mirror, the tears having ceased for the time being.  _ Look up ‘pathetic’ in the dictionary, and this is what you’ll see.  _

He flips off the light. 

Careful not to run into Belit, Ardyn moves to the bed and flops down on top of it. Foolishly, he wonders if this is all just a bad dream. He’ll wake up tomorrow and text Gilgamesh about it, poking fun at how silly it all was, how dramatic they acted. 

Shifting his head up in the blankets, Ardyn catches sight of the blinking notification light on his phone and, without another thought, grabs it to power on the screen. 

An email from Gilgamesh, his flight itinerary to Tehran. 

It hits him all over again and this time, the tears don’t stop nearly so quickly. 


	7. Twenty Dollar Parking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ardyn collects moss while Gilgamesh doesn't.

Gilgamesh’s remaining days in the States are marred with a tenseness that neither is willing to acknowledge.

What should be days spent in one another’s company, enjoying their time left, are instead spent with a cold terseness neither derives any pleasure from. Gilgamesh has a number of odds and ends to wrap up and take care of, packing to do, research materials to ship. He’s often busy, and Ardyn feels awkward trying to take up what precious little time they have left with a selfish outing. Not when practicalities still need to be taken care of.

Ardyn does win one battle, though, and asserts to Gilgamesh that _he_ will drop him off at the airport. Perhaps it’s worth noting, though, that Gilgamesh ultimately doesn’t put up much of a fight.

To Ardyn, Gilgamesh just sounds tired when they do talk. The stress of packing up his life so suddenly—Ardyn doesn’t envy him.

Ardyn doesn’t want him to go, either.

The days seem to fly by after their ill-fated dinner. Each night Ardyn finds himself torn between just calling, burying the hatchet, apologizing for not gushing and being overjoyed for this break. But he knows, deep down, that he doesn’t have it in him to lie. Not to Gilgamesh, not about this.

Ardyn understands that he’ll be kicking himself for his inaction later. He might not ever be able to forgive himself. So why he just doesn’t pick up the phone and call Gilgamesh, he doesn’t know.

It doesn’t help, either, that Gilgamesh doesn’t think to call as well.

\---

He doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing at all.

For miles and miles they’re silent, just the swishing of other cars they pass and are passed by, the low hum of the radio. Polite conversation— _Did you pack everything? Someone from the crew picking you up when you land?_ —dies out quickly and neither tries to rekindle it.

He knows it’s not forever, but that doesn’t stop it from feeling that way.

Never has Ardyn wished more for construction to throw detours in their way, for gridlock to keep them planted firmly in place. He drives more slowly than normal, hands at ten and two, back straight. Afraid to glance over at Gilgamesh next to him, afraid to confront the fact that he won’t be sitting there when Ardyn makes the drive back.

Gilgamesh is brilliant. Everything about him shines, from his intellect to his kindness. Just being near him, Ardyn thought—Ardyn thinks—is enough. He will go far in life, as a scholar or researcher or professor in his own right. Exploring the world, tackling complex social issues, excelling at whatever he puts his mind to.

Ardyn wants him to have that, wants him find every success this world has to offer. But that doesn’t stop a part of him, a selfish part of him, from wanting Gilgamesh to stay put. To stay by his side, to stay near him. To continue lighting up his life as he has these past few months—brilliant and silvery blue, painting Ardyn’s life in glowing, romantic hues.

But Ardyn would never say this to him. Not even if he knew it’d make Gilgamesh stay.

Not that it _would_ , Ardyn’s sure of that.

Instead of dwelling on the uncertainty of the future, Ardyn’s mind looks back. The fleeting touches, that innocent peck of a kiss at his front door. Gilgamesh’s presence, warm and solid, next to him in the shallows of Lake Huron. His hips swinging to the pulsing beat at the club. His smile as Ardyn gulps his water to quell the spice on his tongue from the pad thai. The way he looks at Ardyn when he isn’t looking back—a look Ardyn’s only caught glimpses of—so full of _something_ fleeting and caring.

The headlights of a car behind them are blinding in the rearview mirror so Ardyn adjusts it, catching sight of Gilgamesh in the reflection as he does so. He’s nodded off, head resting against the window, arms crossed in front of his chest. It’s not the first time he’s dozed off in Ardyn’s car, lulled by the quietude of the highway, at ease and comfortable as if he were in his own bed. It hurts like hell to think this could be the last.

Ardyn almost doesn’t have the heart to wake Gilgamesh when he’s pulled into short-term parking some thirty minutes later. He waits a few seconds after cutting the engine, hoping Gilgamesh will stir on his own, but instead of waking he curls in closer to himself. Ardyn pulls the key from the ignition and just watches Gilgamesh for a time. They’re early for his flight, so Ardyn lets himself have these few moments.

One minute, then two. Ardyn sighs sharply through his nose and lightly shakes Gilgamesh’s shoulder, rousing him. “We’re here.”

Deep amber eyes open slowly, Gilgamesh takes a moment to remember where he is and why. He sits up, stretching his back lightly, then looks to Ardyn. Voice thick with sleep, a tad awkward, sheepish he fell asleep and now can’t avoid a drawn-out goodbye, Ardyn suspects, he speaks. “You didn’t have to park.”

“I’ll see you to security.” Ardyn’s already got one foot on the ground, off to get Gilgamesh’s bags from the trunk. He’s not having this disagreement.

Gilgamesh materializes at Ardyn’s side to help with the bags, and they close the trunk together, it locking with a dull click. Wrestling the heavier bag from Ardyn, Gilgamesh slings it over his shoulder as Ardyn slips the backpack on. Together they walk to the terminal.

Ardyn hangs back as Gilgamesh snakes through the check-in line, handing over his heavy duffel bag to the woman with the bright lipstick at the counter and producing his passport for confirmation. Gilgamesh wears loose sweats and a University of Michigan t-shirt, the sleeves snug around his biceps. He’s got a hoodie stuffed into the backpack Ardyn’s still got on his back, and one of those neck pillows, too. Small comforts on a long flight, but cumbersome to carry around all the same.

Gilgamesh is back at Ardyn’s side a short time later, taking the backpack from Ardyn and slinging it over his shoulder. “You should go. Gonna have to pay for parking if you stay longer.” He shifts his weight between his feet, awkwardly looking over to the line to get through security.

Ardyn can’t go with him beyond that point, can’t wait at the gate with him. He knows Gilgamesh is suggesting he go not to be cruel, but at this point they’ve already crossed the threshold from clean to a messy goodbye, so what’s the point in leaving now? Stubbornly, Ardyn stays put.

They assure one another of the same things they said before leaving— _I’ll email you when I land. Service might be spotty but I can probably call_ —then linger. Gilgamesh doesn’t move towards the line for security, and Ardyn doesn’t back up towards the glass sliding doors.

Eyes trained down on his feet, tentatively Ardyn reaches for Gilgamesh’s hand. He just wants to twine their fingers together, to feel that point of connection for a second more. An innocent gesture Ardyn hates himself for not initiating more. As their fingers brush together, Gilgamesh leans in, drawing Ardyn into a firm hug.

Though stunned for a moment, Ardyn quickly reciprocates the gesture, wrapping his arms around Gilgamesh’s back, squeezing him in kind despite the backpack. Ardyn shuts his eyes and breathes in deeply Gilgamesh’s scent, memorizing the feeling of his beard rubbing against his cheek and ear, how solid Gilgamesh’s chest is pressed into his own.

Ardyn wants this moment to last forever. He knows full well that’s impossible. That doesn’t stop him from feeling pure unbridled disappointment when Gilgamesh pulls back.

They linger again, both contemplating, trying even, to address the elephant in the room. Arguably more than colleagues, more than friends, but to Ardyn at least it feels like there’s an impassable sea between them. Acknowledging what is there, that attraction, putting a name to it—it feels as if the very act would make it disappear. Would banish it from existence as if it were nothing but a mirage.

So he says nothing but a quiet goodbye, which Gilgamesh returns before finally stepping away.

Ardyn stands watching as Gilgamesh slowly snakes through the line, then deposits his belongings on the conveyor belt, slips off his shoes, and goes through the metal detector. He gets through smoothly and without incident, though Ardyn has to move to see him gather his belongings and cram his shoes back on one foot at a time.

Everything righted and with nothing else to do but head to his gate, Gilgamesh cranes his neck to find Ardyn on the other side of the security barrier. He waves. Ardyn waves back. Then he turns and heads deeper into the terminal, disappearing in the sea of travelers.

Even with Gilgamesh out of sight, Ardyn stays firmly planted in place, as if he’s put down roots. He doesn’t expect Gilgamesh to come running back, a sudden and passionate change of heart, neither does he think he’ll run to the ticket counter, throw down his credit card and buy a ticket on the same flight. Regardless, he can’t bring himself to move from that spot, not for a long while.

When his feet and knees begin to ache from the hard laminate, Ardyn compels himself to move. He wanders the terminal, finds himself at one of the many Starbucks kiosks and pays far too much for a cup of black coffee. The caffeine’ll just keep him up, but he sips it slowly, sitting at one of the tables, sticky from a harried traveler sloshing their caramel macchiato there. His phone is silent in his pocket, not a single text tone or vibration, but Ardyn’s done well to avoid checking it compulsively like he’s sure to be doing later tonight. For now, it just feels solid and cold and bleak, like polished obsidian, inert and an unwelcome weight on his mind.

By the time Ardyn returns to his car, he no longer wants to linger. He’s far past the structure’s complimentary thirty minutes, so he fishes out a crumpled twenty from his wallet to hand the parking attendant then is off into the night. The way is clear so he makes good time, or maybe he’s just driving faster than he was before. Either way it feels as if Ardyn’s blinked and he’s pulling into his driveway, the porch light flicking on at the motion.

For all his sudden fervor to get home, Ardyn lingers in the driveway for some time after he cuts the engine. Inhaling deeply he looks to the empty passenger seat, slides a hand over the leather. It carries none of Gilgamesh’s heat, not anymore, not physically.

Ardyn lingers there far longer than he would ever like to admit.


	8. Boston Fern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ardyn tears off the bandaid.

Life picks up as normal to an astonishing degree following Gilgamesh’s departure.

The sun rises come dawn, the birds begin to chirp. The usual morning sounds—distant alarms going off, cars driving by—filter in like everything is business as usual. As if Ardyn hadn’t experienced a devastating loss the night before. The world continues to spin, indifferent to it all.

But there’s only so much wallowing Ardyn can do before boredom and his own physical needs (hunger being a key one) take hold and he wills himself out of bed. It’s little surprise that his phone contains no signs of Gilgamesh’s safe arrival, him having taken to checking it compulsively all morning. An intentional slight or a consequence of bad cell reception and no Internet connection?

Ardyn tries not to dwell on it.

Word does come two days after Gilgamesh left in the form of an email. It’s completely cordial; a thorough write up of his journey so far, from what he ate on the plane to the furnishings in the room he slept in upon his arrival, half a world away. Ardyn reads it all in one go, then rereads, and rereads it again.

It’s what he was waiting for, yet Gilgamesh’s precise writing leaves Ardyn wanting something more.

At the very end of the email is a request. Gilgamesh prefaces it by writing he had planned to ask Ardyn of it before leaving, but given the circumstances, never got around to it. He apologies twice for the hassle, but asks Ardyn to stop by his apartment to water his plants—not every day, he stresses, but once a week or so, if possible.

Ardyn knows it will take him a while to craft a reply, that he’ll agonize over every other word, so in the meantime he simply writes back the following:

_Your plants are in safe hands._

The rest can wait.

\---

Ardyn lets himself in with the key stashed under the mat, just where Gilgamesh said it would be. He stuffs the key in his pocket as he twists the door handle open—it doesn’t feel safe to leave it there, even in this sleepy apartment building.

Gilgamesh has only been gone for a few days, so the apartment still smells of him, and looks like he’s only stepped out to run an errand or to class. Everything is in its place, or, at least it is as best as Ardyn can remember it. It feels like a year has passed since he was last here, full of piss and vinegar, making a fool of himself.

Sighing through his nose, Ardyn toes off his shoes one at a time. He knows there’s no point in crying over spilled milk, and yet…

The kitchen is spotless, each dish tucked away safely in the cupboard, the silverware neatly stacked in the drawer. Even the sink is wiped out and completely dry, not a water stain in sight. Ardyn checks the fridge and is hardly surprised to find it completely cleared out, save a stick of butter and nonperishable salad dressing.

After double, triple checking that he’s closed the fridge door snugly, Ardyn wanders into the living room in search of the plants. The space is just as naked as it was a week ago, lacking clutter and personal flair. Also lacking any greenery.

Ardyn fishes his phone out of his back pocket to bring up Gilgamesh’s email once more, frowning at the fact that he neglected to specify exactly _where_ these plants are. Gilgamesh’s apartment being as small as it is, there’s really only one other place to look next. A thought that makes Ardyn’s heartbeat accelerate.

It’s hardly an invasion of privacy if Gilgamesh asked him for this favor. Though, as Ardyn takes an uneasy step over the threshold into Gilgamesh’s bedroom, the intrusion feels like anything but.

Strangely enough, however, once Ardyn is on the other side of the doorway, and finds himself in the middle of the completely ordinary room, his heart quiets.

Not even a ghost of Gilgamesh remains here. It almost hurts more that way—how quickly that detachment has sunk in and how this space, this private, private space, is now no more than any other room to Ardyn. His excitement (tempered with embarrassment) at getting a glimpse into Gilgamesh’s bedroom feels like a childish story from years ago, not just a week.

Though almost nearly as minimalistic as the rest of the apartment, the bedroom offers a few choice personal touches that do interst Ardyn.

A double bed neatly made, its emerald green comforter pulled up snugly and folded over itself underneath the pillow. A desk near the window, with two shelves above it, lined with books. A silver lamp with a white paper shade stands watch over the nightstand. Closet doors shut. Laundry basket empty.

Everything is in its place, hidden from sight, save for a t-shirt on the edge of the bed. Bold in its defiance of order.

The shirt is laid out over the bed, as if Gilgamesh had merely forgotten to pack it or simply ran out of room in his luggage but didn’t remember to put it back in the closet. It’s heather grey, with nothing less than the university logo emblazoned across the chest. The shirt’s huge, that much is easy enough to tell just by looking at it; oversized even for Gilgamesh.

It almost feels like Gilgamesh _wanted_ Ardyn to find it here. To see it. Though why remains a mystery.

Ardyn’s eyes cascade over the shirt, to the window sill where one _would_ expect a plant or two to be, but finds it bare. Idly, he wanders towards it, to the tidy desk still without a layer of dust, the chair tucked in neatly. Ardyn raps his fingers on the desktop, his gaze flicking over the shelf of books above it. Titles he’s come to expect in Gilgamesh’s collection, a good mix of English and Arabic.

Just as Ardyn begins to wonder if this is all a big joke designed to waste his time, or if Gilgamesh has the world’s only plants that have evolved to have legs, he turns to see the bathroom door slightly ajar.

Only one other place to check.

Pushing the door open, Ardyn is surprised to find the little bathroom full of dampened light, filtering in through a high slit of a window made of frosted glass, and verdant greenery. Like a veritable little jungle, the shower stall is filled with leafy fronds pouring out of a number of hanging containers, ceramic and plastic alike. Cords hold the containers suspended in air, hung from the ceiling on eye-hooks. Were the bathroom filled with steam from a hot shower, there’s no doubt they’d resemble little floating islands amongst the clouds.

Ardyn laughs softly to himself. Somehow, he thinks he should have foreseen something like this happening. Given the plants’ home in the shower, he only finds it logical that they’re watered daily with the shower’s use. Being in Gilgamesh’s apartment is one thing, disrobing to use his shower is another. Besides, the thought dawns on Ardyn that the plants will need daily attention… And as much as he really doesn’t mind coming by so often, it isn’t practical.

A plan begins to formulate as Ardyn backs out of the bathroom. Minutes later he’s fishing a cardboard box out of his trunk, then jogging back up the front walk of the apartment complex. After removing his shoes at the front door once more, Ardyn heads back into the bedroom, but pauses when he notices something on the nightstand.

Setting the empty box down, he goes to it—a thick book with a near perfect spine and gold embossed letters on the cover. The words seem to sing as he rubs his thumb over them, an ancient song, the words to which Ardyn doesn’t know but seems to understand completely. _D_ _umuzi’s Dream: Aspects of Oral Poetry in a Sumerian Myth._

Surprised, Ardyn takes a seat on the edge of the bed, book in his hands. Gingerly, the glue on the spine cracking ever so, he opens the front cover to see the bold PROPERTY OF HATCHER GRADUATE LIBRARY stamp on the first page.

 _Stealing a library book?_ Seems there’s more to Gilgamesh than Ardyn first thought.

Ardyn flips through the early pages, recalling the bits he read months ago in the dusty stacks. How stupid he was, Ardyn thinks, for wasting that time. How much would he give to have just a few moments of that quietude.

As he turns the pages, Ardyn realizes there’s something stuck in about halfway through the book—a bookmark, no doubt. After opening to that page, though, Ardyn nearly drops the book.

A green strip of paper, slightly crinkled, the stark white letters spelling out HEINEKEN emblazoned across it. Adhesive still intact, the paper—the wristband—was cut cleanly, laid out flat, and, as Ardyn discovers by flipping it over, made into a piece of memorabilia. The date and club name are written in a neat, stark hand, giving the fragile piece of paper a place of belonging. A _sentimental_ meaning.

Of course, who’s to say Gilgamesh doesn’t do this with _all_ of his similar paraphernalia? Maybe he has a scrapbook chock full of them somewhere. Ardyn doesn’t want to jump to conclusions, won’t _let_ himself jump to conclusions, but even he has to laugh at the irony of the wristband being stuck in the partway through an unfinished chapter in the book.

Careful to return the wristband to its proper place, Ardyn closes the book and lowers himself back onto the bed, the springs creaking softly under his weight.

_What the hell does Gilgamesh want Ardyn to think? What is he trying to accomplish?_

Frustrated and confused, Ardyn stretches his arms up over his head, his one hand skating across the forgotten shirt. Turning on his side, Ardyn pulls the shirt in, hesitating only briefly before bringing the shirt to his nose.

_Of course it smells just like him._

It doesn’t smell sharply of Gilgamesh, like it was just worn. Rather, it’s a muted scent, cut with fabric softener. But underneath it all, there’s the smell of Gilgamesh’s skin and hair. Not cologne or shampoo or body wash, but his intrinsic scent. Warm and inviting; something Ardyn forgot just _what_ it was like until this reminder.

It’s easy to dwell on the regrets. The _‘why didn’t I just say what was on my mind’_ s, the _‘if only I just went for it’_ s. Curled up here, on Gilgamesh’s bed, clutching his shirt close, it’s certainly easy to feel pathetic.

But feeling pathetic isn’t going bring him back. And it’s certainly not going to mend things.

So Ardyn pushes himself up and stands on his own two feet, careful to smooth out the pristine cover and erase any trace of himself. Methodically, he then takes down each of the plants in Gilgamesh’s shower, placing them in the cardboard box he brought up with him. As he makes to leave, Ardyn eyes the shirt once more, back in its place on the corner of the bed.

Something forgotten or something left behind?

Ardyn runs his tongue over his top lip, thinking.

\---

It never ceases to amaze how useful a heavy box of tools can be, despite being owned by a complete amateur.

The power drill, a good twenty years old by Ardyn’s best guess, is solid in his hand, whirring loudly and thrumming, shooting vibrations up his arm. Smartly, he drills a number of small holes in the ceiling above his shower, wiping away any plaster dust with his thumb. They’re hardly noticeable, the little holes, so he figures they won’t be an issue should the day come he decides to sell his house.

The eye hooks (a surprise find in a jar filled with various screws, hooks, and nails in the garage) fit in snugly, and he tightens them with his hand, pulling gently to ensure they won’t just fall out. Satisfied with his handiwork, Ardyn next sets to hanging the plants in their new temporary home, mimicking the way Gilgamesh had them strung up at slightly different heights.

Ardyn feels a definite little surge of excitement for his next shower when the little ecosystem is set up.

He gathers a few stray items of clothing from his bedroom floor after his work is done. Ardyn’s half empty closet gives every indication that laundry is sorely overdue. But he leaves the oversized heather grey shirt on the corner of his bed where he dropped it hours ago.

That one doesn’t need washing.

Full basket tucked under his arm, power drill in hand, Ardyn exits his bedroom, leaving the borrowed items behind.

\---

Ardyn takes his time composing his reply to Gilgamesh’s email that evening. First, getting practicalities out of the way, he notes that he’s in possession of Gilgamesh’s key and plants, but opts not to mention the shirt for now. By now he’s feeling rather foolish for taking it, knowing for sure he’s overstepped a line. He’ll return it shortly and never speak of it, he thinks.

_Unless, Gilgamesh makes reference to it in his all but assured reply…_

Nevertheless, Ardyn is sure to hit all of the usual points in his response. He asks after Gilgamesh’s health, the wellbeing of his fellow researchers based in Iraq, the upcoming plans and schedule. It’s only been two days, so it’s not as if Ardyn has much to update Gilgamesh on, so he takes instead to writing of Gilgamesh’s upcoming adventures, hoping his words aren’t misconstrued for having a terse and bitter tone.

Hell, he even contemplates adding a few smiley faces for good measure, but ultimately deletes them, not wanting to provide solid proof of just how out of sorts he is.

Ardyn debates slipping in an apology, but doesn’t know quite how to word it. _I’m sorry for the awkwardness surrounding your departure?_ He deletes the line on his third review of the email.

 He most certainly forbids himself from any over the top _‘I miss you’_ s or _‘can’t wait for you to come back’_ s. Terrified of being perceived as the stick in the mud he believes himself to be, Ardyn settles on a half-truth to close out his update.

_You’re doing amazing work. I couldn’t be happier for you._

His own words sting more than anticipated, but they’re sent off regardless. Ardyn can’t help but wonder how Gilgamesh must picture him now, pathetic and alone, trying to put on a brave face but so obviously failing. It’s enough to make his stomach churn, so he powers down his phone and computer, knowing if either are on the urge to check his email will be too strong to resist.

A thorough belly scratching session with Belit and hot shower later Ardyn’s no better off. He fights with himself—to check or not to check his email—the little floating islands in his shower twirling as the spray hits them, much like his conflicted thoughts. Ultimately, he gives into the impulse.

Towel wrapped around his hips, hair still wet from the shower, he emerges from the bathroom, ready to be met with acrid disappointment or stinging silence, only for his eyes to find the shirt draped over the side of his bed first.

Ardyn wishes he were a stronger person, someone with better moral character. He wishes he wasn’t such a coward, a downer.

He wishes he didn’t _need_ this, like a child and his security blanket, and yet.

Ardyn slips the shirt on over his head, lightly shaking out his overgrown mane. He loosens his towel and lets it fall to the ground in a puddle around his feet, the shirt long enough to maintain his decency, coming easily to mid-thigh.

And all around him is that scent he’s come to miss so badly in the span of two short days.

His computer and phone remain off as the pull of sleep becomes too strong for even his most vicious anxieties. Despite all odds, sleep comes easy tonight.

\---

Ardyn tears off the bandaid the next morning, still wearing Gilgamesh’s borrowed t-shirt.

Gilgamesh’s reply to his email is measured, polite, and like his first, ripe with detail. If his reports back to Ardyn are this chock full of the mundanities of life over there, Ardyn’s curious to see what his field diary looks like.

Writing his reply back is easier this time—a task he leaves to the end of his day so he has _something_ to write about. It’s a little easier today, to cope with Gilgamesh being gone. Especially given how well he comes through his writing, how Ardyn can practically hear the lilt of his voice, reading out the lunch and dinner menus at the coordinator’s house or describing how they’ll travel from the city to the ruins for their survey.

There is a little twinge of bitter sweetness beneath it all. Ardyn was right—with physical distance comes that ebbing of raw emotion. In one way it’s welcome; as the pain of separation lessens with each day, it’s obviously less strain on his system. But by the same measure, Ardyn feels this backsliding to normalcy signals a cooling of his own feelings, a loss of that special spark.

He scolds himself for getting too down on himself like that. Each day gets easier, and each day spent apart brings them a day closer to reuniting. _That_ is how he knows he should regard things.

In a few weeks the first cool breezes of fall bring much needed relief to town, and the first signs of the changing season come to pass. Moving trucks and SUVs packed with belongings flood the streets and once more the campus is abuzz with the student body and activity.

Ardyn gets busy. The new semester brings a full load of papers to grade, lectures to plan, graduate students to mentor. This doesn’t make him forget Gilgamesh—of course not. He saves each and every email from him to read in the quietude of night, at home or in his office, savors that alone time to reflect on the day and craft his reply.

He still feels a twinge of sadness each time he passes Gilgamesh’s office, dark, door locked. But the reminder _this isn’t permanent_ is right there, in the back of his head, on the tip of his tongue.

Things aren’t the same between them, that much is obvious. How could they be with such distance between them? But from the quick thaw or tensions through the early weeks of fall to the (dare he say _flirtatious_?) pleasantries they now trade freely by email, Ardyn’s confident they can pick things back up come January.

Well, maybe _confident_ is too strong a word— _cautiously optimistic_. He’s _cautiously optimistic_ that not all’s been lost. An idea that has him grinning like a fool as he types up his nightly reply to Gilgamesh.

\---

Cor slides into the booth opposite him, steaming paper cup of coffee in hand. Both are still done up in their coats and scarves, winter having decided to rear its ugly head early this year. Ardyn’s regretting choosing a booth near the window, but doesn’t feel like changing seats now that they’ve both already sat down.

Their usual haunt is full, but not quite to capacity yet. Smelling deliciously of coffee and the standard holiday spice mix, Ardyn warms his hands on cup, watching the red nosed students file in and out of the cold, fishing wallets and cards out of pockets and backpacks.

It’d be an understatement to say that Ardyn was relieved when Cor rolled back into town after his cross-country trip during the summer. Ardyn quickly got him up to speed on everything, he hadn’t realized how good it would feel to lay everything out with a third party, and regretted not texting or calling Cor over the summer to ask for advice. Though, on the other hand, he’s pretty sure his questions would have quicken grown annoying, so perhaps it was for the best he was in his isolated little world.

Today they’re quiet for a bit, both popping off the plastic lids to their coffees. They blow on the billowing steam until they’re cool enough to drink.

“Holding up alright?” Cor asks, that raspy voice belying little tenderness.

Ardyn shrugs noncommittally. “Midterms are going to be murder.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Oh.” Ardyn takes a sip. “Yeah, it’s okay. Just, ah… two months to go?”

“Time flies.”

“Sure does.”

“Too bad he won’t be back in time for the Christmas party.” Cor blows contemplatively on his coffee. “He’s not afraid of rubbing elbows with his betters, though, is he?”

Ardyn scoffs. “ _Betters?_ I trust you aren’t including to yourself there. Gilgamesh could talk circles around anyone at that party—faculty or student alike. He’s just too polite.” Ardyn takes a sip. “I don’t remember him going to any of the department parties in the past.”

“You should invite him next time.”

“Why? That’s a lot of pressure, don’t you think?”

“I mean, who ever wants to go to their SO’s work stuff, anyway? No one? But you do it because you care about the other person.”

“Okay, okay, stop right there.” Ardyn chops the air between them with both hands for emphasis. “This? This is not a thing. This does not exist.”

“Ardyn. Tell me again. What did he make for you, when you went over to his place for dinner?”

“Beef Wellington…”

“And for dessert?”

Ardyn looks down at his coffee. “Crème brulee.”

“You don’t just whip out the casual Beef Wellington and crème brulee for a friend—a buddy from work.” Cor pinches the bridge of his nose, exasperated. “What the hell, man.”

“Why are you getting upset with me?”

“Because as smart as you are, Ardyn, you’re a fucking idiot.”

It takes Ardyn a good long minute to recover from that one, mouth hanging open lamely. Cor just shrugs and takes a few sips of his coffee.

“Y’know, I feel bad for him. He’s tried what, every approach in the book? And you kept giving him these mixed signals, and just.” He shrugs again, for good measure. “Here we are.”

“Mixed signals?” Ardyn’s fumbling for the right word, the right way to defend himself. “It’s not that simple. Not at all.”

“Ardyn. You’ve recounted to me what, nearly every minute you’ve spent with the guy? Every detail?” Cor barrels on, not bothering to let Ardyn refute the facts. “I’ve met the guy, I’ve seen what he’s like around you, even when you aren’t gallivanting off on some stupidly romantic getaway, okay? You know how he looks at you?” He pauses, motions for Ardyn to actually take a stab at answering.

Ardyn opens his mouth, but instead of words there’s only a lame sputtering sound.

“Yeah, you have no idea. He looks at you like you’re the center of his world. Like you’re the only person he’s hearing in a conversation, like you’re the only one he’s really seeing.”

Ardyn’s gaze darts down to his coffee, to Cor’s, then finally up to Cor’s face, flustered and called out. “Well that was… Certainly poetic. I mean, how long have you had that one planned?”

“You want the truth?”

“No, I suppose I don’t.”

“Alright, tell you what. You write up in your email tonight that you want to Skype him, okay? You want to see him, you want to talk face to face, you want to hear his voice. ‘Kay?”

“Why?”

“To see how he looks at you, you dense—”

Cor cuts himself off as a group of students pass by, arms laden with textbooks.

“Jesus,” he sighs. “Gonna have to switch to tea here if we keep doing this. You’re murder on my blood pressure.”

“Well, I’m sorry I’m such an idiot but—”

“Don’t apologize to me.” Cor kicks Ardyn’s shin lightly under the table. “Just do what I said. See for yourself. Then apologize. _To him._ ”

“Do I get anything if you’re wrong?”

Cor raises an eyebrow. “Year’s worth of coffee’s on me. But I’m not wrong.”

Ardyn rolls his eyes, but doesn’t suppress the laugh. “Well, we’ll see about that.”

Cor hums in assent. “We sure will.”

\---

True to his word, Ardyn does make the ask to Gilgamesh. He doesn’t frame it in such a grandeur way—that he absolutely must see Gilgamesh’s face, hear his voice—though, now that he thinks on it, he really wouldn’t _mind_ those things. Of course he can still picture Gilgamesh in his head, hear his voice, but he wouldn’t mind the refresher. Not at all.

Gilgamesh replies that he’d like to do that too—but only if the weak Internet connection at his camp cooperates. They try to do it, in the ensuing days and weeks, only for increment errors to put fairly quick ends to their conversations.

Still, they keep trying. Ardyn comes to relish these short-lived connections, hearing Gilgamesh’s deep voice, though somewhat distorted, seeing his pixelated face. These short, but precious, calls, on top of their daily emails, give Ardyn an untold amount of comfort. So much so that he finds himself wearing Gilgamesh’s shirt to sleep less and less as it starts to smell like him more and more.

In the back of his head he knows he’ll need to wash it and take it back to Gilgamesh’s place before he returns home—to avoid any suspicion, and all. But for now it’s an item at the bottom of his to-do list, right above pick Gilgamesh up from the airport.  

Finally, one weekend in December the stars seem to align and all the pieces fall into place. Ardyn boots up Skype on his laptop, clicks on Gilgamesh’s icon, the little green mark next to his picture (disappointingly the default one) indicating he’s online.

The screen changes for the call, the ringer sounding. Ardyn crosses his fingers and toes, heart jumping into his throat as the black screen suddenly gives way to a grainy image of Gilgamesh.

“Is it working…?” Ardyn clicks the camera button, clicks it again, unconvinced. He’s not tech illiterate, no, but he certainly doesn’t feel savvy now with the prospect of seeing Gilgamesh after all these months for longer than a few minutes, no matter how pixelated the image is. Flustered, he tries again. “Can you see me?”

“Yeah—Can you—Ardyn—”

The connection’s weak, that’s for certain, Gilgamesh’s audio coming in cracked and broken. The webcam feed is grainy but steady. Ardyn just prays the call doesn’t disconnect, a death knell that’s prematurely all their Skype attempts in the past. He can make do with a spotty connection, anything just to get a glimpse of the smile he’s rediscovering just how much he’s missed.

Still, Ardyn tempers his excitement with a dose of reality. Even _if_ the call cuts out, Gilgamesh will be back next month. This conversation is just the cherry on top of a parting soon coming to an end (and a means to prove something to Cor).

“Are you there? I can hear you, somewhat.” Ardyn tries muting and unmuting himself for good measure, confirming the setup is working on his end.

“Crystal clear,” Gilgamesh says not a beat later, his image clear—well, as clear as a makeshift Internet connection in the middle of the desert is capable of.

It’s mid-morning in Ann Arbor, the winter sun filtering in through the curtains in Ardyn’s living room. Ardyn has his thick rimmed glasses on, and feeling self-conscious, looking at the tiny view of what Gilgamesh is seeing, removes them. It’s nearing midnight in Iraq, on the other hand, and the sharp, blue light of a lantern illuminates Gilgamesh’s face from off screen. He must be in his tent; the mild winter temperatures hospitable enough with a bit of canvas and a sweatshirt.

Even with the grainy video, Ardyn delights in seeing Gilgamesh after all this time. His hair is longer, dark strands curling against his neck, a cloth headband keeping most of it out of his face. Gilgamesh’s beard looks fuller now, though maybe it’s just the webcam and the light. What isn’t a trick of the connection, though, are the bags under Gilgamesh’s eyes. Though Gilgamesh is smiling, he looks tired.

“You look good,” Ardyn says, meaning it completely. “Sleeping alright?”

Gilgamesh’s laugh is partly broken by a lag in the connection, but jovial all the same. “Like the dead. My head hits the pillow and next thing I know it’s morning. It’s good, though. I’m excited to get back out there tomorrow.”

Ardyn laughs softly. He can remember a time like that in his life, being so absorbed in his work, feeling like he was on the cusp of something and wanting nothing more than to just dive back in. Sleeping or eating be damned. It’s an enviable thing, but Ardyn’s glad Gilgamesh is experiencing it now. “The pictures you sent yesterday were gorgeous. Everything’s really been untouched for centuries.”

“And there’s so much of it. The winds blow the sand in another direction overnight and we’re tripping over a new set of ruins the next day.” Gilgamesh takes a sip of something from a tin cup, tea most likely. “You’d love it here.”

“I’m sure I would. We’re all taking bets on what _Indiana Jones_ -type adventure you’ll be off on next. Doesn’t seem like you’ve had to fight off any Nazis yet, though.”

“No, no, but I have come across my fair share of snakes. And camel spiders.”

“Ah, yes, and suddenly I remember why I decided to leave fieldwork to the young.”

Belit is circling around Ardyn’s legs, nudging her face against him for attention. Obligingly, he leans down and scoops her up, then holds her up to the webcam so Gilgamesh can see. There’s a slight lag in his reaction, but the cooing comes without fail. Belit for her part looks pleased and lets Ardyn arrange her in his lap when Gilgamesh is done getting a cursory view in.

“My mother starting feeding a new group of strays back home,” Gilgamesh says. “Nearly did myself in more than once during meal time, tripping over them all.”

“Relatable. Belit may only be one cat, but I’d wager her ferocity come dinner time rivals theirs.”

“She’d be the one leading the pack. Gang? Not sure what it’d be called.”

It takes but thirty seconds of Googling for Ardyn to find the answer. “A clowder, apparently.”

“Who gets to decide that? Just make up some nonsensical word and attribute it to a whole group of animals?”

“Who can say,” Ardyn chuckles. “Make a name for yourself in the academic world and maybe someday you too can name a group of something. Anything but camel spiders.”

Gilgamesh tosses his head back in laughter. “Anything but that.”

They talk for a good forty minutes with minimal interruption from the connection. To Ardyn it feels so natural, though, he almost forgets there’s a screen between them. Email is no substitute for seeing Gilgamesh, for having that concrete connection between the sound of that booming laugh and the sight of how his warm eyes soften, the white slice of teeth amongst the black of his beard.

Which reminds Ardyn… Given the graininess of the image, it’s hard to say for sure. Gilgamesh’s eyes _do_ seem to brighten when Ardyn speaks, he certainly looks engaged and interested in what Ardyn has to say, no matter how mundane and boring it is. _Is this really the look Cor referred to?_ Ardyn has no idea, but he can’t deny that it does feel good to be looked at, to be seen, by him.

At some point, though, Gilgamesh really looks as if he’s about to pass out; it’s far past midnight over there. As much as Ardyn wants to keep talking, he at least reminds himself once more that Gilgamesh is coming back soon. The gentle sun filtering in from the window behind him warms Ardyn’s back and he just smiles. Soon they’ll be together again.

“I’ll let you go before you fall asleep on me. I’m really glad the Internet behaved this time.”

“Me, too.”

“Before I forget, did you book your return flight already? Could you forward me your itinerary when you have it?”

Gilgamesh goes still and quiet, and for a minute there Ardyn thinks the call’s dropped. Two words sap the warmth from Ardyn and his smile flattens into a line.

“About that…”

For a futile few seconds, Ardyn holds onto hope that Gilgamesh’s flight schedule has been moved up. That he’ll be here and back the day after next. But Gilgamesh keeps talking and saying all the things Ardyn doesn’t want to hear.

“Things are… you can understand. I need more time here, there’s still so much to do.”

“How much longer?”

“Two months, for now. Longer if I can get my visa sorted.”

Ardyn’s stomach drops. _Longer?_ “When were you going to tell me?”

“I’m sorry, it just, it wasn’t something I could just type in an email. I literally just started figuring things out this morning.”

Belit jumps down from Ardyn’s lap, sensing his distress. “I thought you were wrapping up. What about your winter classes? I thought you said everything was set up for you to TA.”

“I know, I know. But—Ardyn, if you were _here_.”

The wall holding back all of Ardyn’s pent up displeasure, his well-crafted mask of being the perfect cheerleader, both crumble in seconds. “I know what it’s like to be young and impulsive—but it’ll keep. Everything will be there for you in a year. It’s lasted this long—you have a life here. You have responsibilities.”

Ardyn’s face goes sanguine and the naked shock on Gilgamesh’s face is enough to make him regret everything. He feels sick, trying to use the logistics of class and TA-ing as way to cover his own selfish want for Gilgamesh to come back. Ardyn wants to cut the call, ashamed and anguished that Gilgamesh has seen just how pathetic he is on the inside, but finds he’s frozen in place.

“You’ve seen the news, I’m sure,” Gilgamesh says softly. “Everything might not be here in a year. There are people in this country who deface these ruins. Destroy them. They see something signifying a thousand years of culture and would riddle it with bullets. I can’t just go back and say with confidence that I’ll be able to return and things will be as they are today. I just can’t.”

Ardyn hates himself. Hates himself for being so selfish, for being so ignoble. He quickly shakes his head ‘no,’ sending his long hair flying. “Of course, of course. I know.” His stomach drops when he processes the rest of Gilgamesh’s words. “Are you saying—is it that bad there? Gilgamesh?”

“Not here, no, not yet. I promise. But there are no guarantees. I’ve already made up my mind.” Gilgamesh’s voice is heavy with sentiment, his shoulders sag under his guilt. “I’m sorry.”

If it were possible, Ardyn hates himself more for the apology.

“Don’t apologize, please.” Ardyn straightens himself against the back of chair, summoning what little professorial authority he has and lets the lies tumble from his lips with a precision and believability he didn’t think himself capable of. “As long as you’ve figured out the logistics with next semester—if anything the department will be thrilled to hear you’ve taken to the fieldwork so. It’s… this is a good thing, Gilgamesh. I’m glad for you.”

“I know it’s sudden—”

“I do mean that. You’re doing incredible work over there. Take all the time you need—as long as it’s safe, that is.”

Gilgamesh nods once. “That’s what I intend to do.” He’s still and silent for a moment again, leading Ardyn to think the call may have dropped once more. When he speaks again, his voice is soft. Contrite. “Since, well, things have changed… we could try to Skype more often. If you have time.”

The answer should be simple. Ardyn should say ‘yes’—that’s what he wants, right? To be wanted by Gilgamesh? But his stomach’s churning, his mind is reeling. The last thing he truly wants is for Gilgamesh to see him like this, but also, as he comes to think, to keep this feeble hope alive that there is something here. What else can he believe, when Gilgamesh would rather stay far, far away with no return date in sight?

“Just send me an email when you have time,” Ardyn says with a startling amount of pleasantness.

Gilgamesh is still once more, then slowly nods. “Okay.” He doesn’t push the issue.

The conversation wraps up from there, Gilgamesh clearly exhausted and Ardyn feeling it, too, after everything. They say their goodbyes and Ardyn hangs up.

The call disconnects and Gilgamesh’s image disappears from sight. An annoying popup appears: ‘ _would you like to rate the quality of your call?_ ’ Ardyn dismisses it quickly.

He tries to put things into context. Another two months or a few more? What difference does it make at this point, when he’s been gone for four already. In their time apart Ardyn’s fallen back into his usual routine, he’s busy with class and grading an endless stack of papers and exams. His days are full and he’s kept occupied, it’s not as if he’s been wallowing in some depression.

But it’s now, now that he’s faced with the reality of Gilgamesh’s delay, that he realizes just how much he was looking forward to picking him up from the airport and bringing him home. How he was counting down the days in his head, how he was already mentally planning how he wanted to welcome him back, what he wanted to cook for him, do with him. _Say to him._

Along with those dashed hopes, though, there’s anger and there’s hurt. Gilgamesh owes him zero favors, has no obligations to him, but Ardyn can’t help but take this as a slight—a sign, clear as day that Gilgamesh doesn’t see whatever Ardyn’s fooled himself into perceiving between them. That all he’s done these past few months is set himself up for disappointment and disillusion That he’s driving himself mad with worry, and for what?

For a schoolboy crush that has never and will never be returned.

Ardyn shuts his laptop and is taking the stairs to the second floor a beat later, snatching Gilgamesh’s shirt from his bed in a flash. Not a minute later he’s back downstairs, tossing it in the laundry machine with a copious amount of detergent.

He’s done with waiting for nothing.


	9. Strawberry Spring

Ardyn doesn’t remember much of the holidays. It’s a cinnamon and clove scented blur of colored lights, bitterly cold mornings, and all too early sunsets.

They pass without much fanfare and he’s glad for it. Time off from work, days with little on the agenda besides feeding Belit, is a first class ticket deeper into the pit of listlessness he’s plunged himself into. Come the start of winter semester, Ardyn loads his plate full of responsibilities and obligations. Anything to keep his head and hands busy.

The little reminders remain, of course, even as the Christmas lights are taken down and wilting fir trees are taken out with the trash. Misty little floating islands—something Ardyn comes face to face with each day when he splashes water onto them. He thinks of foisting them upon someone else, moving them to the guest bathroom, at least. But it’s a task he never quite gets around to, due to a general forgetfulness and reluctance to remove them.

The shirt, once starkly clean and smelling of nothing but lavender fabric softener, is tucked away in a sock drawer. It’s something Ardyn can’t bring himself to take out again. He tells himself he shouldn’t backslide, he doesn’t _need_ it, as how could it provide any comfort now? In reality, he knows he feels too guilty over taking it, over needing it so much. So it languishes with the dress socks, neat little rows of black and navy blue bundles.

In time, it smells more like the wood of the drawer than anything else.

\---

The snow long overstays its welcome this year.

Though it hasn’t snowed in nearly a week, the icy mess still clings to the sidewalks and roads for dear life, dirty and brown and deceptively slippery. Walking to campus is murder—the wind like a saw blade, somehow finding each inch of vulnerable skin not shielded by hat, scarf, gloves, or coat, and cuts in deep. There’s little relief at the office or any of the auditoriums Ardyn lectures in, a constant and pernicious draft seems to follow him, blowing directly on the back of his neck.

Home is little better. The creaky old wooden floors absolutely refuse to take on any warmth, and Ardyn’s makeshift solution—bringing up every old rug from the basement and spreading them across the boards—only brings his feet a modicum of relief. The windows shudder with each strong gust and the walls groan. The water in his shower never seems to get quite hot enough (though perhaps it’s a blessing for the plants) and his power goes out nearly every time a bad ice storm hits.

Were Ardyn a more dramatic sort, he might wring his fists and shout obscenities at God for his gross misfortunes. He might gnash his teeth, tear his hair out, curse himself for his mistakes.

But he does none of these. True to form, he goes silent. He keeps his head and his hands busy.

Ardyn takes to cooking elaborate meals, even after returning home around eight or nine, after a full day of lecturing and grading and mentoring and everything else he’s thrown himself into. Arms heavy with reusable grocery bags stuffed with ingredients, it’s as if Ardyn is compelled by a spirit to dirty every pot and pan, cutting board and knife, in his kitchen each night. Only once everything is dirtied and made clean again and put back in its place can he sleep—a heavy, dreamless sleep that engulfs him totally and releases him all too early in the dark of morning.

Cor intervenes after a month of this.

It starts with a prodding invitation to attend a film screening, a weekly staple that accompanies each of Cor’s classes. Ardyn has his pick of the typical French New Wave, Cold War era Soviet films, and the wild card: Hollywood’s Embarrassment: B-Movies From the Golden Age and Beyond. It isn’t much of a decision, really.

Cor makes sure Ardyn sits next to him each week, out of a misplaced sense of guilt, perhaps. Or, maybe it’s just to make sure Ardyn doesn’t skip a week or slip out before the credits roll. They get coffee in the dining hall after, neither really wanting to brave the fierce cold on their way home. The conversations stall out quickly early on, neither able to sustain it despite the hour and a half of schlock they’d just seen.

It does get easier, though. It has to, really, by the time they reach _The Night of the Lepus_ and there’s no way they can sit in silence with the image of giant hopping killer bunnies so fresh in both their minds.

The (much needed) companionship doesn’t fix everything, but it certainly does help keep Ardyn sane. (And from messing his kitchen up each night to escalating to a far more desperate and drastic home remodeling project.)

If anything, though, the coaxing out from the neurotic patterns does help Ardyn realize just how far he’s fallen off the deep end.

One evening, in a flurry of hot oil and over-boiling saucepans, Ardyn comes face to face with the realization that he’s thrown together the first—the last, the only—dish he cooked for who else but _him_. Sweet figs topped with crisp pork belly, drizzled in a tart vinegar reduction and sprinkled with a pinch of chili powder. Ardyn never did get to taste one during the party, and the different flavors mingling on his tongue now does more to nauseate than sate any literal or metaphorical hunger.

One fig is all he can bring himself to do.

The next day, Ardyn brings the full platter to the office to dispose of via colleagues and makes a solemn vow to pull himself out of this spiraling nosedive before he crashes.

\---

Gilgamesh continues to write, his daily report arriving in Ardyn’s inbox each morning. Dutifully, Ardyn reads each email and replies, but it’s obvious just how he holds Gilgamesh at arm’s length now.

Neither make mentions of it, nor does Gilgamesh call out how Ardyn skirts past his invitations for another video call.

Things are strained, to say the least, but they go on refusing to acknowledge the elephant in the room.

At times, Ardyn wonders if it isn’t best to simply stop replying all together. That would make things intensely awkward when Gilgamesh eventually does return, he knows, but he’s currently floating in this ambiguous space. An obviously strained relationship, Ardyn’s, albeit selfish and self-righteous, hurt, Gilgamesh’s apparent intentions to go ahead as if nothing has happened between them.

He doesn’t do this, though; he continues to reply each evening, does his utmost to not let the despondency slip into his words. Ardyn was never one for inflicting cruelness on others; only on himself.

In time, Ardyn’s replies grow shorter, occasionally he skips a day though Gilgamesh never does. A cycle of bitter guilt and regret ensues, dogging at Ardyn’s conscience and leeching away what little sanity he feels he has left. It’s another thing to add to Ardyn’s long list of things he hates about himself—his needless standoffishness and the way, deep down, he still hangs on Gilgamesh’s each and every word.

The emails are a bitter pill Ardyn feels he must swallow, unable to break free and either speak his mind or give up their correspondence entirely. Making a decision either way feels more and more impossible with each day that passes—the same with simply apologizing, though for what, at this point, he can’t say.

So both continue to pretend everything is fine when everything so clearly is not.

\---

Ardyn knew clumsy hands and feet were a thing. It’s more than humbling to learn that there’s such thing as a clumsy tongue, too. It helps, of course, that his teacher is infinitely patient, repeating the syllables again and again as if she were handling delicate porcelain, but it’s humbling nonetheless.

Aimed at working professionals rather than the usual freshman, the class is held once per week. Together, fellow university staff and other locals string together an increasingly longer list of Arabic vocabulary and pair off to glide (or in Ardyn’s case, stumble) through the set scripts: introducing oneself, asking about the weather—the usual basics of conversation.

Ardyn was always vaguely aware of the tuition-free classes held by various departments for non-students, from languages to brush-up courses on the basics for a variety of subject matter. He never felt like he had the time to take one, but it’s a more than welcome distraction now. Language was never his forte, though he did manage to pass all his Latin classes throughout high school and college, but the listing for ‘Beginner’s Arabic’ calls to him.

It feels almost disingenuous to sign up, like he’s some sort of poseur—like he doesn’t deserve to learn about something so intrinsically linked to Gilgamesh’s culture. Part of him wonders if the class won’t just exacerbate things, make him feel worse. Logic wins out, ultimately—it’s not as if Ardyn _isn’t allowed_ to study a language spoken by millions upon millions worldwide—and the next thing he knows he’s buying the beginner’s textbook on Amazon.

It’s a small class, only eight students of various ages and their teacher, a professor of Persian Studies in her own right. Despite everyone being above the age of thirty, the class falls into that usual pattern—everyone seems to stake out their set seat from the first class on, everyone is all too good at avoiding their teacher’s eye line when they don’t wish to be called on.

Ardyn finds himself always sitting next to a soft spoken thirtysomething; the type who takes the course dreadfully serious, despite there being no grades or credit. Always on time, his notebook and textbook neatly aligned before him, he’s always singularly focused on the lesson being taught that week, rather than the no doubt busy office job he’s just come from, if his always tidy business attire is any indication.

Unlike Ardyn, his conversation partner— _Ravus Nox Fleuret_ , as if he’s a member of some European dynasty—excels. The first few weeks, Ardyn almost feels bad, like he should move seats to avoid pairing up with Ravus only to slow him down. But that, he concludes, would only make things awkward. It’s not as if Ravus moves seats, either, so for better or for worse they remain paired class after class.

Ardyn’s curious as to why Ravus is taking the class—for work, perhaps? He doesn’t strike Ardyn as the type who does much for fun. Though really, studying a foreign language seems like the perfect hobby for someone so controlled and put together. It’s hard to work up the courage to ask, too. Ravus isn’t prickly, per say, rather… he’s all business. Buttoned up, the gears in his head constantly whirring, his hand unleashing a near constant torrent of notes each lesson.

Conversely, Ardyn finds himself antsy, even in class (which he chose to take for fun—and to force him out of the house). Arabic, while beautiful on his teacher’s and Ravus’ tongue, is clumsy and ungainly on his. The curling, conjoined characters, too, are mesmerizing when written on the whiteboard, and Ardyn finds himself getting lost in them when he traces a finger over them in his textbook. But writing it himself is another matter completely.

Still, despite everything, Ardyn persists. Out of sheer stubbornness or stupidity or frustrated desperation, he can’t say, but after weeks of floundering even Ravus seems to reach his limit and requests— _no, it’s much more like a_ demand _, Ardyn thinks to himself later_ —that they ‘touch base’ ( _his_ words, not Ardyn’s) over coffee.

Ardyn finds himself agreeing, not having enough gall in him to propose Ravus simply move seats. Blunt—not _rude_ per say, but certainly not taking ‘no’ for an answer—it’s frightening how easily Ravus makes the ask and how quickly Ardyn accepts, not processing at first how he’s walking into the lion’s den.

This class—this distraction—was never meant to be such a minefield.

\---

The news hits like the low roar of thunder. Disconcerting, ominous and oppressive, but distant enough away to feel like someone else’s problem, not his. With his windows already closed, the laundry pulled off the line, after all, Ardyn’s more than prepared to ride out the storm, tucked away inside.  

This time, Gilgamesh begins with the news of the extension upfront, spelling it out clear as day. His original return date, once pushed back two months, has again been extended to June or July, the specific date still up in the air.

It’s a dull ache this time around, not a fresh stab of perceived betrayal. Ardyn doesn’t make a fuss over it (though he wonders if not for him pushing Gilgamesh away in the first place, this might not have happened), doesn’t throw a fit.

Ardyn reiterates his offer to pick Gilgamesh up from the airport when he does eventually return. From everything Gilgamesh has written about, each detail and aside and story, it’s clear he’s having the time of his life over there.

It’s easy, he finds, to write glowing words of praise and excitement, and surprising, in a way, that his first gut reaction is not that of perceived rejection but rather genuine enthusiasm for Gilgamesh and his continued endeavors. Turns out even after months of this strained contact, Ardyn just can’t stop caring.

\---

Despite dreading this meeting and the reaming Ardyn’s sure he’s about to receive, true to form he arrives plenty early, bundled and packaged up like a forgotten Christmas present, ripe for tearing open.

It quickly becomes clear that arriving 15 minutes early isn’t enough to beat Ravus, however.

Coat hung neatly on the back of his chair, scarf folded up nicely on the vacant seat next to him, his gloves placed one on top of the other on the heap, Ravus sits scrolling through his phone. He looks up over the rims of his glasses ( _Ardyn didn’t realize he needed them_ ) when Ardyn appears before him, pulling out the chair opposite him.

“Nothing to drink?” Ravus locks his phone and takes off his glasses, folding in the ends. He makes a funny sound in his throat—not quite a dismissal, but some form of chastisement, Ardyn figures. Ravus is on his feet, fishing his wallet out of his back pocket just as Ardyn sits down, fighting with the scarf around his neck.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he says, struggling to remove the layers in the all too warm coffee shop.

“You aren’t late. I was early.” Ravus is soft-spoken enough, though there’s a layer of assertiveness beneath his words. A demand to be heard. “Coffee? Tea?”

“Ah… a coffee would be great, thank you.”

It takes Ardyn a few minutes of fumbling with his layers to remove them, which Ravus spends in line placing their order. Dressed much the same as he is in class—button down shirt tucked neatly into slacks, not a single ashen blond hair out of place—it’s odd to see him in a different context. Ravus is a local, that much is clear, but a local Ardyn’s never crossed paths with before. Or, if he has, he has no memory of it.

Once the coffee is sorted—Ravus offers to fetch Ardyn cream or sugar, though both take theirs black—they settle in, Ardyn expects Ravus to dive right into it. A swift reprimanding and he’ll be back on his way in the cold, but at least he’ll have the hot coffee in hand. Only, Ravus doesn’t immediately speak. Rather, he idly straightens his discarded glasses on the table, waiting, perhaps, for the billowing steam from his coffee to die down before he takes a sip.

Ardyn, on the other hand, risks it.

“You work for the university, don’t you?” Ravus’ grey eyes settle on him, genuinely curious.

Well, it’s certainly not the opening Ardyn expected.

“Yeah… Professor of ancient history, specializing in pre-empire Rome.”

Ravus nods. “And you like it? Teaching?”

Ardyn finds himself thinking this is an awful indirect way of rebuking him for being a terrible conversation partner, but he rolls with it. “I do.” Well, _tries_ to. “You, ah… I’m sorry, what do you do, again?”

“Product marketing.”

Ardyn waits. Ravus doesn’t elaborate further.

Perplexed, maybe even a bit annoyed, Ardyn raps his fingers on the warm paper cup between his hands. “I’m sorry, can you tell me why we’re here?”

“As opposed to…?”

Ardyn blinks. “I can move seats, if that’s what you want. I can’t guarantee my brain’ll suddenly be able to grasp Arabic overnight, but I’m not trying to be terrible on purpose.”

Ravus’ brow scrunches up, as if of all the things possible that Ardyn could’ve said, he’d just spoken in Chinese. “What?”

“The coffee is appreciated, really, but you could’ve just said something in class. I’m not _so_ fragile that I’d shatter into a million pieces or anything.”

“What do you think this is?” Ravus cocks an eyebrow as if amused by his own in-joke.

Ardyn just shrugs. “You’ll have to enlighten me.”

“Well now I’m curious. Did you think I—what? Asked you to come here so I could insult you?”

“Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

By now Ardyn catches on that he’s caught up in some gaff. His cheeks take on a similar shade of red to his fingers, warmed from the coffee cup. “I feel like an idiot.”

Against the odds, Ravus’ laugh is full and entirely good-hearted. Much to Ardyn’s immense surprise, it also persists far longer than Ravus, the scrunchy-browed marketer, seems capable of. By the time his laughter dies down he’s wiping tears from his eyes, his normally pale cheeks flushed pink.

“You’re so hard to talk to, in class I mean,” Ravus says when he manages to collect himself. “I thought a change of scenery would… didn’t mean to make it sound like a declaration of war, or anything.”

Though his jaw is still clenched, waiting for the surprise blow to hit, Ardyn allows his voice to soften slightly. “In my defense, I’ve never heard someone frame an invitation to coffee as a ‘touch base.’”

“Fair enough. Can we start over?”

Ardyn finds himself nodding.

“Good.” Ravus extends his hand across the table, prompting Ardyn to mirror him, and they shake hands. “Ravus.”

“Ardyn.”

“Would you care to grab a coffee sometime, Ardyn?”

“Nice and straight forward. That, I appreciate,” Ardyn chuckles. “Will we practice our Arabic?”

“Only if you want to.” Ravus offers a little smile that, dare Ardyn think, looks rather mischievous. “Think I might prefer to have a conversation with you beyond the current state of the weather, for a change.”

As it turns out, Ravus is full of surprises. Once they clear the awkward hill, the rest of the outing is hardly unpleasant. By the time they say goodbye, the sun already on its downward trajectory at only four o’clock, Ardyn knows much more about Ravus than he did before. He has a younger sister who is newly engaged, served in the military straight out of high school, fenced later on in college. The detail that rings most loudly in Ardyn’s head, though, is the repeated fact that Ravus is single—a detail he casually peppered into the conversation a number of times.

Ardyn doesn’t think he’s crazy to see that as a sign of interest, though it certainly is quite a lot of food for thought.

\---

Winter gives way overnight, and an unseasonable warmth floods the city with a curious mist that lingers into the afternoon each day. What remains of the snow, grey and dirty, melts quickly, and for a good day or so the streets and sidewalks are nearly submerged in murky water. There’s no denying that the air smells like spring, fresh and new, and it all feels starkly black and white how suddenly things have changed overnight.

It’s a curious phenomenon—a strawberry spring, as the local newspaper calls it. Being only early February, the sudden arrival of spring takes everyone by surprise—crowds of bewildered students flood the quad in unzipped jackets, tugging off hats and gloves. No one expects the warmth to last, but against the odds it does.

Ardyn finds himself awaking in a haze each warm morning, and can’t shake the feeling of the mist hovering around his head like it does around his house and car out on his driveway. The change in the weather is welcome, most notably as the nagging cold that’s dogged Ardyn all winter dissipates all together. He still brings his winter coat with him to work, skeptical the good weather will hold, and day after day finds himself not needing it.

Meanwhile, this _thing_ with Ravus continues to be a _thing._

With Ravus’ office being close to campus, it isn’t hard to find time to grab lunch or coffee together. Ardyn always finds himself somewhat on guard around him, like he’s waiting for a blow to hit that never quite comes. It isn’t that Ravus is unpleasant company, not at all, but there’s something that prevents Ardyn from feeling completely at ease in his presence. Like the sudden turn in the weather, perhaps there’s something there that Ardyn can’t quite trust.

But, also like the warm weather, there’s something there that Ardyn _wants_ to trust. A warmth and a connection he’s so desperately been missing—a bit of relief after months of listlessness. Is it any wonder he’s skeptical of both? But day by day everything outside looks more and more like spring—green leaves budding on trees and students devoid of heavy snow boots and winter gear—and the invitations to meet with Ravus continue.

Somehow it doesn’t feel completely right, like Ardyn’s caught in a waking dream, but little by little it’s easier to buy into. Little by little it’s easy to forget winter’s harsh chill and Ardyn’s loneliness since Gilgamesh’s departure.

The conversation comes easier now, about their respective jobs and hobbies. It turns out Ravus _is_ taking the class for work, his eye on new expanding markets in the Middle East, but his interest in the language is genuine beyond just business opportunities. He likes to cook, like Ardyn, enjoys reading when he has the time—he even gets a kick out of the B-movie plots that Ardyn describes to him, fresh in his memory from that week’s screening. Ardyn does contemplate inviting Ravus to one of them, but knowing Cor is there stops him. It feels like too much too soon, though it’s not as if they’re anything more than friends.

Ravus holds his hand once. His fingers slipping in between Ardyn’s as if they belong there, finding their place with little fumbling. The gesture gives Ardyn pause, though he says nothing, makes no move to pull his hand back. Ravus’ fingers are soft, a little cold, curled snugly with Ardyn’s.

It’s only then does he truly consider the implications behind Ravus’ invitations, his smiles and refusal to switch seats—viewing them not as a strange novelty, but as a real person’s feelings towards him. Being desired in such a way so openly is a completely new experience to Ardyn—one he at first has no idea how to process.

After one week the warm weather stays, and the notion that spring really has come so early begins to stick. The idea that Ravus so seemingly does want something more than friendship, too, begins to put down roots in the back of Ardyn’s head.

This turn in the seasons has Ardyn tucking away the rugs and piles of blankets he brought out the month prior. He’s glad of the change in weather, glad to tuck away his sweaters and heavy cardigans until they’re needed once again. He’s never been on for ‘spring cleaning’ per say, but it feels more than needed—and welcome—so on the weekend Ardyn finds himself sorting through closets and picking through drawers, ridding himself of clutter left and right.

Keeping his hands busy has always been a marvelous tactic to keep his mind from fixating on things. It’s a tactic he uses now for the same purpose, hesitant to entertain the thought of a possible fling.

In one closet, Ardyn stumbles upon a rather innocent looking shoebox—size ten Hush Puppies from 1988, from his best guess. Instead of finding a pair of moldering shoes inside, however, Ardyn pulls out a stack of old photos, his mother’s neat hand recording the details surrounding each embarrassing moment captured in time.

_Ardyn’s Christening, 1974. Christmas 1978. Third Grade Graduation, Mrs. Stockwell’s Class, 1981._

Ardyn takes a seat at his kitchen table to sort through them, laughing almost at how little he recognizes of himself. Staring down at his chubby cheeks and thick swathe of wild red hair, looking utterly bewildered in his christening gown and held in his mother’s arms, he almost feels bad for his younger self.

It strikes him as odd, regarding himself in this way. Caught between wishing he could warn himself of all the pitfalls and hardships of adolescence and young adulthood and wanting to shield himself, to bundle his infantile self up in bubble wrap and hide him from everything that could come— _would_ come—to bring him harm.

He moves on, flipping through the photographs of birthday parties and Halloween costumes, family vacations and piano recitals. Ardyn comes to a full stop when he finds a snapshot from high school, his mother’s handwriting spelling out as plain as day what Ardyn didn’t think he was in possession of: _Homecoming, 1987. Ardyn and Lisa Chong._

The awkward smiles, matching corsages, _his braces_ —Ardyn does little but gawk at his gangly younger self, amazed that just looking at the photo immediately dredges up those same desperate feelings of needing to belong, and terror that he doesn’t, even after all these years. Disturbingly enough, they’re just as fresh as he remembers them being in that instant, holding Lisa Chong’s hand while the photographer snapped the photo.

Ardyn can smell the desperation after all this years, stinging and cloying like the atrocious aftershave he picked out for himself from K-Mart. Just looking at the photo resurfaces those sharp pangs of self-loathing, that teenage angst and listlessness he felt during the years of transition from child to adulthood. It’s so easy to hate the kid smiling a little too widely up at him—easy to hate him for trying so hard, for being so awkward. For never, ever getting it right.

For not knowing what to say, or being too scared to say it.

For letting those years dog him to this day—for hating himself, for berating himself, for never, never, never feeling at home in his skin and worthy of the affection someone else was so obviously willing to give.

For fucking up the one good thing to happen to him in years. For pushing the one person away who made him forget how much he hated being himself.

There aren’t so much as tears, but a series of choked, airless sobs that seize Ardyn’s body. Mourning for all this time spent hating himself, blinding himself to untold possibilities. Curled in on himself, the Homecoming photo still in his hands, the entire experience isn’t unlike a snake shedding its skin. Old is sloughed off, pushed away bit by bit giving way to the new underneath.

Ardyn’s not naïve enough to think that this is the end of it, that he’s completely turned a new leaf. But it’s intensely cathartic, realizing that all that self-loathing, white hot and wickedly sharp, is pointed squarely at his adult self. That it’s been holding him back, blinding him, poisoning him against himself and his better instincts.

Somehow, recognizing that is enough.

Each little flash of connection replays in Ardyn’s head—every instance of Gilgamesh’s kindness, so clearly now weighted with affection and the simple question of, _“do you feel the same way that I feel about you?”_ Of course now, some of these memories have a matching pair; an opposing instance of Ravus the dark horse smiling at him, holding his hand. But the difference between the two sets of memories is night and day.

A new beginning has its own promises, yes. The chance to start fresh and not to let the baggage of the past hinder him. But now more than ever, Ardyn knows that isn’t want he wants.

When Ardyn collects himself, the picture goes back into the box, on the very top of the stack. Eyes puffy, throat dry, and the urge to clean completely vanished, Ardyn spends the rest of the day composing his next email to Gilgamesh.

\---

It really was too good to be true.

The weather shifts radically quite literally overnight, winter plunging its talons back into the city with a vengeance. The dreamlike mist that lingered in the streets vanishes, and in its place is a new layer of snow and ice, snuffing out the buds that dared to appear early.

Though the mood on campus is decidedly glum with the reappearance of winter, it doesn’t seem to bother Ardyn one bit. Out with the rugs and sweaters again, yes, but no matter how low the temperature drops that pernicious draft is nowhere to be found. His coat is always warm enough, boots always dry. Even Cor and Ravus comment on how well Ardyn’s taking the extension of winter in comparison to how miserable he seemed before.

Ardyn doesn’t quite give the details to either party. But then again, he doesn’t really need to.

Ravus tries to hold Ardyn’s hand again after class one night, both walking vaguely in the direction of home. It’s not something that surprises Ardyn this time around, not something he feels unworthy of. But instead of letting it happen, Ardyn pulls his hand away.

“Thank you,” he says, though if Ravus’ mildly confused reaction is any guess, the meaning behind Ardyn’s words is lost on him.

“For…?”

Ardyn places his hands in his coat pockets, shrugging lightly. “For wanting to spend time with me.”

Ravus chuckles softly. “You say that as if you’re a leper or something.”

“Sometimes it feels that way…” Ardyn trails off, then laughs it off. “But I’m on the mend.”

“Good.” Ravus nudges him lightly with his elbow.

It feels as if there’s an understanding between them. An acknowledgment that in another time or place, maybe there could’ve been something. But here and now, Ardyn has little else but the words of his last email to Gilgamesh tumbling around in his head.

He’s anxious for an answer, yes, but his shoulders feel lighter than they have in months; his head clear. Ardyn’s never, ever been one to show his hand, to lay all his cards out on the table… but that’s just what he’s done.

Now, all he can do is wait. And despite everything, all the fuck ups and misunderstandings, all the stubborn refusals to just speak his mind, Ardyn doesn’t think he’ll be waiting too long.

An answer isn’t a guarantee that everything will be okay, but Ardyn’s fine with that. With Ravus’ warmth radiating at his side and his own mind made up, Ardyn finally lets go of Lisa Chong’s metaphorical hand.

What’s done is done. There’s only going forward now.


	10. One Who Lives Well...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patience.

The airport is deserted at this hour. Ardyn’s been sitting in the arrivals waiting area for the past forty minutes, checking his phone every two, eyes tracking the progress of the flight on the signboards for any deviation from the slated ETA.

He didn’t need to leave home so early, not with Gilgamesh’s flight arriving this late at night, but he did so anyway, true to form. Ardyn knows he’s useless in that awkward bit of time before some big event, unable to focus on anything or be productive. His nervousness putting Belit on edge, Ardyn opted to just make the drive down to the airport well in advance. He always finds something calming about highway driving at night, something about the solitude of the road and the sound of the engine. It was balmy enough so he drove with the windows down—with luck, the pleasant early June warmth indicating a mild summer to come.

Ardyn hasn’t been back to the airport since dropping Gilgamesh off, and while objectively he can  look back on the year that’s passed and remember how agonizingly slow time seemed to go by, sitting in the arrivals area, strangely it all feels like he was here just yesterday. How easy it all feels now, like Gilgamesh’s absence was nothing more than a quick weekend trip, like Ardyn spent their time apart catching up on a TV series he fell behind on, or finally got to reading a book that had been languishing on his shelf.

It’s easy to forget how difficult it all was, now that it’s over.

Gilgamesh’s plants have flourished in Ardyn’s shower, carefully attended to for all these months. They still live at Ardyn’s place, and Ardyn fully intends to return them, of course, but he figures it can wait. At least until Gilgamesh is settled back in at his place—something Ardyn intends to offer to help with. It dawns on him now that he could have gone over to vacuum or dust; it also dawns on him that he still has Gilgamesh’s shirt at his house.

Ardyn tries to push these minor details to the back of his mind. The cleaning, while a nice gesture to do in advance, is something he can still assist with. The shirt… he’ll have to find a way to explain, yes. Perhaps he used it to keep the plants from falling over when he brought them to his house? It somehow got mixed up with his things? No, no, Ardyn knows he’ll have to be honest about it and pray Gilgamesh doesn’t find it off-putting. He makes a mental note to wash the shirt again and rid it of that drawer smell.

It’s amazing, though, how much has changed with just a few emails. Misunderstandings smoothed over, miscommunications righted. The spark, though tested by those tense months apart, acknowledged and affirmed. 

Ardyn felt like a fool for a good while—in truth he still feels the sting of his denseness. His string of apologies was met, naturally, by Gilgamesh’s; apologies for not being clearer, not taking the first step sooner, for not acknowledging the generational gap between them which no doubt hindered their mutual understanding of their relationship. 

Although they patched things up, there’s still a bit of a question mark regarding just _what_ their relationship will be, once they’re reunited. For all the feelings of closeness that months of email can bring, with the physical element of things added back into the equation, Ardyn’s unsure of his (and Gilgamesh’s) mettle. 

It’s something Ardyn’s sure Gilgamesh is thinking on, too; something they’ll both need to be careful of. But their mutual attraction is known between them. Their feelings of interest acknowledged. They’ve cleared the first, and arguably biggest, hurdle to their relationship. The rest will come.

Gilgamesh’s plane touches down after another twenty minutes or so, followed by another fifteen of taxing to the gate, then a long slog through immigration and customs. It’s a slog for Gilgamesh, of course, the poor man’s exhausted and jetlagged, the type who’s too large to ever really get comfortable on a flight, much less sleep. For Ardyn, though, it’s the complete opposite.

After getting that first text message from Gilgamesh saying he’d landed, it all becomes very real—the fact that Gilgamesh is back, that there’s now less than a mile (give or take) between them. That in just a short while they’ll be standing before one another again, walking side by side out to Ardyn’s car, and driving into the night. 

Ardyn takes to pacing when a trickle of travelers emerge from the immigration gates. He’s got not real way to know if they were on the same flight as Gilgamesh, though some women wearing hijabs give him a hint. He keeps his eyes trained on the doors regardless. For all he’s built this moment up to be in his head, all the ways he’s dreamed it playing out—including the over the top rom-com ways: sprinting into one another’s arms, kissing passionately while all the onlookers applaud—his imagination is surprisingly quiet now.

Ardyn almost doesn’t recognize him at first. His skin is a touch darker from the sun, beard a bit longer, hair pulled all the way back in a loose bun. But when their eyes meet it truly is like one of those movie moments. The happy sounds of other reunions around them fade out, the crowd of people smears into a blur of color. There’s only Ardyn and there’s only Gilgamesh. 

They move toward one another, Gilgamesh with his overstuffed duffel bag over his shoulder, Ardyn toting the light jacket he needlessly brought with him. When they’re arm’s-length apart, Gilgamesh drops his bag to the floor and a second later his arms are wrapped around Ardyn, pulling him into a crushing hug. It doesn’t take Ardyn but a heartbeat to return the gesture in kind.

“ _Jat khali-ye_ ,” Ardyn intones carefully when they pull back, maneuvering his clumsy tongue over the ungainly syllables. Half a year of classes and he’s still no master, but Ardyn’s certainly not one to give up. _You were missed._

The look on Gilgamesh’s face—a cross between dumb shock and bafflement—immediately makes him question if there isn’t some ulterior meaning to the phrase, if he hadn’t bungled the pronunciation so bad as to have it come out as an insult. It was Ravus he’d asked for advice on what to say to Gilgamesh in Arabic once he’d returned—a favor he’s now regretting.

That regret melts away, though, as Gilgamesh draws him into another hug. It’s less fierce than the first, but more tender. Instead of squeezing him, as if to confirm that Ardyn really is in his arms, Gilgamesh just holds him. “I missed you, too,” he says after a time, chest rumbling against Ardyn’s.

Ardyn nods into Gilgamesh’s shoulder, breathing in his scent, relishing it after being without for so long. “Shall I take you home?”

Gilgamesh nods into Ardyn’s shoulder now. “That’d be nice.”

Despite their words, they don’t budge from that spot, or each other’s arms, for another few good minutes.

\---

The drive back to Ann Arbor is as quick, if not quicker, than the drive to the airport. There’s hardly any traffic on the roads, and if not for the very real sight of Gilgamesh dozing in the passenger seat, Ardyn might’ve thought he was transported back in time to a year ago, making the same drive alone. 

But Gilgamesh is here. He is real. The sight of streetlamps and the moonlight cascading over his skin should be proof enough, though Ardyn does reach over to touch his hand a couple times during the drive, _just to be sure._

Gilgamesh is the real deal. 

The plan was to take Gilgamesh back to his apartment, maybe get something to eat if Gilgamesh was up for it. But as soon as Ardyn pulls out of the parking structure (and pays that $20 parking), Gilgamesh is out like a light, head resting against the window. 

Distracted by his passenger and giddy with excitement at his return, Ardyn, completely on autopilot, finds himself some thirty minutes later pulling into his driveway, not the front of Gilgamesh’s apartment. It’s awfully presumptuous, he knows, and with Gilgamesh so exhausted there’s no way he’ll be up for any entertaining or catching up tonight… but they’re here. 

Ardyn thinks better of inviting him in, but before he can put the car in reverse to back out, Gilgamesh stirs. It takes him a few seconds to seem to remember where he is, but he doesn’t seem perturbed in the least. 

Ardyn clears his throat. “Would you like to stay the night?” He says a silent prayer that the invitation doesn’t come off as sleazy or invasive. “I can take you home, if you prefer, of course.”

“There’s nothing in my fridge,” Gilgamesh says, voice thick with sleep. “Thank you.”

At the mention of food, Ardyn takes a mental inventory of what he has in his kitchen. Enough to feed them both, no doubt, but he kicks himself for not thinking ahead to prepare anything special for this completely impromptu change of plans.

Like Ardyn, Belit is stunned, then ecstatic, to see Gilgamesh again. Gilgamesh entertains her as best he can, though he can barely stay upright, Belit twisting between his legs, purring loudly all the while. Finally Ardyn has to scoop her up to keep her from tripping Gilgamesh as he leads him upstairs, intending to guide him to the guest bedroom. 

Ardyn realizes halfway up the stairs that he hasn’t changed the sheets on the guest bed in ages, however, so he makes a detour to his bedroom to grab some, only for Gilgamesh to follow. Before Ardyn can say anything about the sheets or dinner or anything, Gilgamesh drops his bag in front of the dresser and collapses on Ardyn’s bed in a comical heap, his head not even reaching the pillows.

Ardyn has no qualms about sharing—what’s his is Gilgamesh's, and all—but he’s certainly taken off guard. “You’re not hungry, I take it?” Ardyn sets Belit down onto the bed. “You can change into your pajamas, if you like.”

Gilgamesh mumbles something into the rumpled sheets and shakes his head ‘no.’ The mattress dips under Ardyn’s weight as he sits down and brushes a few locks of tousled hair away from Gilgamesh’s face. “You’ll feel better if you take a shower.”

But now Belit is curled up on Gilgamesh’s other side, a clear sign that he’s not budging. As petty as it is, Ardyn can’t help but feel a slight sting of disappointment that they haven’t had the chance to really talk, what with Gilgamesh being so exhausted. Ardyn hesitates for a moment, then traces a hand down Gilgamesh’s bicep, reminding himself for the hundredth time that yes, Gilgamesh is here, and yes, they have all the time in the world to talk. Right now, the man deserves his sleep.

It may be way out of line, but Ardyn leans in and kisses the soft hairs on the nape of Gilgamesh’s neck. He smells like faded, woodsy cologne and sweat, and Ardyn can taste the salt on his skin. The umpteenth concrete confirmation of his senses that Gilgamesh is here in his bed and not half a world away does wonders to wash away that barest inkling of disappointment.

Ardyn lingers a while longer downstairs. He wonders if he should take the couch for the night, or the guest bed he had intended for Gilgamesh. As they have yet to… discuss just what they are, who they are in relation to one another. Would slipping into bed be too presumptuous of him? He regrets the kiss, though only a little. Only if it makes things awkward between them.

After much pacing, Ardyn ultimately decides to share the bed. It _is_ his house, after all. Besides, Gilgamesh can’t really hold a grudge after Ardyn pulled airport pickup duty for him, whether they avoided traffic or not.

Ardyn uses the guest bathroom to shower and brush his teeth, so as not to disturb Gilgamesh in the ensuite. It dawns on him that he hasn’t had company over night in ages, if the cracked yellow soap in the tub is any indicator. He dries off with a scratchy towel from the linen closet, something he’d hope to smell more like laundry detergent than dry mold, but it gets the job done.

Not even Belit stirs when Ardyn slips into the bedroom, towel wrapped around his waist. He hadn’t thought of grabbing a change of underwear and pajamas beforehand. Ardyn is careful not to trip on Gilgamesh’s bag and he eases open the squeaky drawer just far enough to grab a fresh pair of briefs. It dawns on him then that Gilgamesh’s shirt is in the other drawer, neatly folded amongst the socks. Perhaps Gilgamesh would find it charming, to see Ardyn wearing it. Or, perhaps he’d find it weird. 

Ardyn considers his options until he begins to shiver. One of the bedroom windows is cracked open letting in a nice breeze; it’s not quite so hot yet that Ardyn needs to drag the fan out from the basement. Ultimately, Ardyn goes for it. Carefully he coaxes open the sock drawer, removes the shirt, and slips it over his head. It’s just as big as he remembers it being, the hem reaching mid-thigh.

Changed, his damp towel slung over the back of the chair  in the corner to dry, Ardyn eases himself down onto the mattress. It’s a tight fit, what with Gilgamesh passed out cold on his stomach, hogging most of the space. Belit, too, is curled in the slight dip of Gilgamesh’s waist, so Ardyn does what he can to make himself fit. He settles on his side, curled in around the cat and Gilgamesh. Thankfully with Gilgamesh’s body radiating heat there’s no need to fight with the sheets, and the breeze is cool enough to keep either from overheating.

Intrusive thoughts poke at Ardyn as he tries to fall asleep, that he’s making a mistake, he’s committing an error here that goes beyond faux pas. But the breeze from the window is cool and pleasant and it’s enough to lull Ardyn into heavy, dreamless sleep. 

Ardyn stirs once some hours later. It’s dark still, and it takes a moment for the sound of the shower to filter in. He gropes in the dark to find Gilgamesh gone, Belit nowhere to be found, the bedding cold. Dimly the idea that he should check what time it is drifts through Ardyn’s head, but his bones are like lead and his eyelids refuse to cooperate. The pull of sleep is too strong to resist.

He dreams this time. The images fly by at a glib pace, whipping around him like he’s in the middle of a sand storm. He thinks he’s back at the airport, waiting for Gilgamesh to come through the arrivals gate but he never shows. Worry eats at his guts, he’s frantically trying to get the attention of gate attendants and security guards, but it’s as if they can’t hear him, or his raving makes no sense. He feels heavy next, like his feet are weighted down by stone, and he’s trying to run to the gate, trying to make a break for it, but everything is slow, too slow. He can’t move.

The mattress dips, waking Ardyn for a second time, as Gilgamesh eases himself back into bed. He smells fresh from the shower, the generic, clean scent of Ardyn’s shampoo hanging around him. Ardyn opens his eyes slowly and watches how Gilgamesh carefully arranges his body on his side, doing his utmost not to make too much of a disturbance. 

It’s a magic hour, too early for the sun to begin its rise, when everything is still silent. Alarm clocks everywhere are set to go off soon, automatic coffee pots pre-programmed to begin brewing, but for now, in this brief moment, everything sleeps. Except for them.

Gilgamesh settles in, realizing Ardyn’s awake, and they just look at one another in the dark. “I woke you.” Not an apology or a question, just a statement of what is.

Ardyn nods sleepily, his cheek rubbing against the pillow. "Are you ready to get up now?" The jet lag is always awful on those transatlantic flights, for Ardyn at least. He's already thinking of what kind of breakfast he can throw together; there are eggs in the fridge, probably fixings for French toast or waffles.

"Not yet," Gilgamesh says, voice raspy. "Just wanna stay here a bit longer."

He sighs and nestles in closer, and Ardyn can see a few lingering drops of water clinging to his beard and chest hair. Gilgamesh radiates heat, and he's so close now that Ardyn can feel each deep and easy exhale on his cheek. There’s something so homey about the way Gilgamesh smells, underneath the familiarity of his shampoo and soap there’s the heat of summer, an earthiness that grounds Ardyn and pulls him in.

Ardyn’s hand is on Gilgamesh’s chest before he has any mind to stop himself. The dusting of hair is coarse but not unpleasant in the least, and his pectoral is firm beneath Ardyn’s palm, his skin burning up, still hot from the shower. Absentmindedly, Ardyn rubs his thumb over Gilgamesh’s nipple, finding it firm and peaked.  

It’s only then that Ardyn glances down and discovers Gilgamesh is nude. Shadow preserves most of his modesty, but Ardyn can make out the outline of his penis, the root swathed in dark curls. 

Ardyn’s mouth is suddenly dry. He looks back to Gilgamesh’s face, finds him staring back. It’s an extraordinary situation Ardyn’s found himself in. He should be wracked with uncertainty, second guessing everything up till now that has lead him to be in his bed, in this moment, Gilgamesh before him. But his mind is empty and he’s stupidly calm. Ardyn doesn’t question anything. It all feels so inevitable now, that he was meant to be here. 

The kiss that follows shortly feels much the same.

It’s slow, easy in how uncomplicated it feels, both moving at their own pace. After so long of looking and wanting and wondering, it’s amazing how the pieces just fall into place and how unceremonious it all is. Gilgamesh cards a hand through Ardyn’s hair, sighing through his nose, heartbeat picking up a hair under Ardyn’s hand. He must have used some of the mouthwash kept under the sink, as Gilgamesh’s mouth tastes sharply of mint, and his tongue is still slightly cooler than the rest of his mouth. 

The first kiss is followed by a series of ever-deepening ones, their bodies pressing together tighter with each lick. Ardyn rakes his hand down Gilgamesh’s chest over his side to his flank, causing Gilgamesh to shudder at the tingly sensation. Before long they’re writhing against each other, their breathing growing more and more harried and irregular; a steady sheen of sweat builds up on both brows. 

Both sets of hands ease down Ardyn’s briefs to his thighs. His shirt is suddenly in the way so Ardyn fumbles to pull it off without removing himself entirely from Gilgamesh’s half-embrace. Gilgamesh’s borrowed shirt hits the ground with a muted sound and Gilgamesh is pulling Ardyn back down, kneading his chest. Ardyn has decidedly settled into middle age, his own middle a bit thicker than it should be, perhaps, but Gilgamesh eagerly rakes his hands through the dusting of chest hair, thumbs flicking his nipples.

Sighing, Ardyn eases himself back down and finds Gilgamesh’s neck with his lips. His skin there is coarse with stubble but Ardyn drags his lips over it without complaint, pressing kisses here and there, tasting the salt on his skin, as Gilgamesh runs his fingers through the hair trailing south down Ardyn’s torso. Gilgamesh’s fingertips skate over Ardyn’s ribs, down the softness of his stomach, lingering on the dips and rises, an index finger traces his twenty-year old appendectomy scar.

That same hand slides up Ardyn’s chest and cradles his skull, gently urging him back so Gilgamesh can claim his mouth once more. Ardyn finds himself surrendering to the tide, getting pulled into Gilgamesh’s orbit. He can’t think straight, can only react to Gilgamesh’s cues and rely on his body to act on reflex and impulse. Gilgamesh’s chest and arms and mouth are hot—so hot Ardyn is sweating, head and chest swimming in the sensation of it all. Were it anyone else but Gilgamesh here with him, Ardyn might feel like he was drowning, uncomfortably overwhelmed and losing himself. But he finds its nothing like that—there’s no mutually assured destruction here.

Only trust. Mutual respect and desire. That full feeling Ardyn can only recall experiencing once in the past when everything just clicks for once. He wouldn’t change a single thing about this moment in time and wouldn’t trade it for the world. 

When one kiss ends another shortly follows, Gilgamesh peppering them on Ardyn’s cheeks and nose and eyelids. His fingertips glide down Ardyn’s arm, across his side and belly, and Ardyn can only squeeze his eyes shut in anticipation as he reaches down between them.

Gilgamesh’s index finger makes first contact, sending a jolt up Ardyn’s spine. How long has it been since someone has touched him in such a way? Let alone someone Ardyn wants so badly? Gilgamesh traces Ardyn’s length then takes him into hand, jerking him lightly, careful not tug at his skin, still lacking lubricant. Ardyn can’t bite down on his moan fast enough and crumples into Gilgamesh’s furnace of a chest. He does his utmost not to come here and now, completely overwhelmed by Gilgamesh’s touch, so Ardyn busies himself with kissing and sucking on Gilgamesh’s clavicle.

Increasingly Ardyn wants to touch Gilgamesh, too, to feel how badly he’s wanted. It dawns on him that he has yet to really see all of Gilgamesh, though he’s come close in the past. Overcome with this sudden need, he pushes himself back against Gilgamesh’s chest, far enough so he can see his body. Gilgamesh’s hand pauses on Ardyn, and there’s a question on his tongue which is quickly replaced with a low moan, rumbling in his chest and throat, as Ardyn brushes his fingers through the thatch of dark curls at his groin.

Ardyn lets out a shaky moan of his own as he takes Gilgamesh into hand, finding him scorching hot and lazily half-hard. Beyond the heat and feeling of him in hand, however, Ardyn takes pause at the sheer size of Gilgamesh. Even half-hard he fills Ardyn’s hand completely and then some, and gently Ardyn follows the curve of him. He’s uncut, which doesn’t surprise Ardyn, and both let out drawn-out moans as Ardyn eases down Gilgamesh’s foreskin, exposing the shiny slick head. 

Legs and arms intertwine, mouths meet in the middle and it’s hard to keep track of what belongs to whom. Everything about Gilgamesh is larger than life and yet Ardyn wants more, more than just Gilgamesh’s hand and mouth. Gilgamesh has been a spark, flickering at the fringes of Ardyn’s existence for some time now and all at once it’s caught and spread, like a wildfire igniting and racing across the savannah. There’s no coming back from this, Ardyn realizes. It’s dramatic, perhaps, but he knows in his heart of hearts it’s true. Body and mind are scorched earth now, but with each kiss, each breath and stroke, Gilgamesh is sowing the seeds of something new in him. 

They work at one another, hands and hearts in synch, until they’re both shambling messes. Trading hot breath them in-between wet, open-mouthed kisses, a part of Ardyn wants to slow down, to savor this moment and make it last. But it feels too good—both Gilgamesh’s hand and Gilgamesh’s desire—so he chooses to run headlong into it. They’ll have so much time now, time to explore and savor later. 

By the same measure, though, Ardyn feels like a teenager again, clumsy and barely holding on, and he really doesn’t want to come so soon and like this. So he lets go of Gilgamesh and gives him a soft kiss, as chaste, if not more, than their very first all those months ago at the front door of his house. Gilgamesh’s hand stills and he presses his lips back against Ardyn’s, his beautiful, dark eyes shutting and brow drawing in slightly in concentration. 

Gilgamesh presses a kiss to the corner of Ardyn’s mouth when they part, understanding. He drapes a heavy leg over Ardyn’s just above the knee and slowly eases himself up as a warm, comforting hand gently presses Ardyn onto his stomach. Gilgamesh’s lips graze the nape of Ardyn’s neck, fingertips drag down his sides.

Ardyn swallows hard, twisting his head back to try and catch a glance. Gilgamesh rasps into his ear, finding the soft space between Ardyn’s thighs, and eases himself in. He’s careful not to put all of his weight onto Ardyn, but his chest is pressed flush to Ardyn’s back, powerful legs encasing Ardyn’s, arms over top his. Ardyn’s head is swimming; it’s unlike anything he’s ever felt in his life to be pinned down in this way. The weight of Gilgamesh on him—solid and pleasantly heavy—the heat, he feels small and oddly enough beloved, like something precious Gilgamesh would give life and limb to protect.

Gilgamesh lets out a shaky breath at the contact as Ardyn wriggles his ass slightly, raising his hips to better align their groins. Hairy calves and thighs rub against one another as Gilgamesh works himself into a slow, methodical rut. His breath is hot on the nape of Ardyn’s neck, his beard pleasantly rough. The crumpled, sweaty bedding provides ample friction for Ardyn, the sensation of Gilgamesh sliding over his soft skin makes his toes curl. 

Cycling between pressing his forehead into Ardyn’s neck and shoulder, murmuring nothings into his ear, and kissing the back of his head, Gilgamesh is a steadily crumpling mess. His rut loses its rhythm, devolving into harried staccato thrusts, and he fights to catch his breath. Ardyn squeezes his thighs together as tightly as he can manage, wanting nothing more than to give Gilgamesh every bit of himself that he has to give.

Gilgamesh’s heart pounds against Ardyn’s back, part hummingbird and elephant, and he tenses all at once, sucking in a lungful of air, then groans deeply. His hips stutter, more of his weight coming down on Ardyn, as he thrusts through the sensation, painting Ardyn’s thighs and the bedding beneath them with his finish. By the time the feeling passes, the entirely of Gilgamesh’s weight is pressing down on Ardyn, and Gilgamesh is murmuring in Arabic. The scrape of his beard and way his breathing evens out is infinitely soothing to Ardyn.

He moves slow, as if underwater, sliding off Ardyn while urging him to roll over on his back. Both bodies rearranged, Gilgamesh drags himself up and drapes a heavy leg over Ardyn’s, their chests sticky with sweat pressed together. It all should be stifling, and in a way it is—their heat and the smell of sex—but everything goes white and fuzzy at the edges of Ardyn’s periphery as Gilgamesh takes him into hand.

His hand is slow, unhurried in every sense of the word but sure in its grip. The touch isn’t teasing, just steady and easy, a sure gait instead of a sprint. Gilgamesh will get Ardyn to the finish line, that much is guaranteed. But from the way Gilgamesh draws Ardyn into another series of lazy, wet kisses, it’s clear he has no intent of doing it as an afterthought or a simple return of the favor, so to speak. 

Ardyn cups Gilgamesh’s cheek, his thumb rubbing over the stubble, knowing Gilgamesh can feel how fast his heart is beating, can feel it every time his muscles twitch and clench. If Gilgamesh himself still feels any of that raw excitement in his gut he’s doing a wonderful job at hiding it, his hand not once faltering or losing its rhythm. All of it culminates suddenly enough, Ardyn sucking in a sharp breath, pressing his forehead against Gilgamesh’s as he spills himself on both their stomachs. His vision is unfocused, a sweaty palm falls to Gilgamesh’s shoulder, shuddering breaths break on Gilgamesh’s cheeks and the bridge of his nose. 

When it’s all over, Ardyn can’t fight the laughter bubbling up in his chest. It all feels so perfect, not a single piece out of place, his body both heavy and light all at once. The more he laughs, though, the more it morphs into something different, and Ardyn is gasping for air, throat tight, eyes burning, and unbridled joy gives way to tears. He’s got no idea why, but they’re brimming over and falling down his ruddy cheeks. Gilgamesh says nothing but kisses him softly, then moves his lips over Ardyn’s cheeks, ridding them of the salt, one fat tear at a time, a sure and strong thumb rubbing Ardyn’s shoulder.

Tension uncoils from Ardyn’s stomach as he takes in a number of deep breaths and sniffs loudly. The tears subside quickly enough, here and gone with all the abruptness of a summer storm, and Ardyn lets out a soft, embarrassed chuckle. “I’m fine.” Another loud sniff. “I’m fine.”

“Okay.” Gilgamesh looks back at him, soft eyes dreamily unfocused. His lips move to say something more, but press into a small smile instead. Infinitely trusting, he’ll take Ardyn’s word for it for now. Eyelids heavy with sleep, Gilgamesh nuzzles his face into the crook of Ardyn’s neck, his beard tickling Ardyn’s skin when he nestles in closer.

Just a short while ago Ardyn was thinking what to fix for breakfast, but now dimly he’s thinking of lunch. There’s no way they’re getting up before noon at this rate. Every part of him pleasantly heavy with exhaustion, Ardyn manages to cup Gilgamesh’s cheek with a hand and rubs his thumb over the stubble there. Gilgamesh presses into Ardyn’s touch, not unlike Belit when she’s feeling affectionate, and slowly exhales, muscles relaxing one by one until he’s completely pliant.

The typical sounds of the city waking up do not wake them, not even Belit’s hungry cries for food. Ardyn and Gilgamesh just sleep, wrapped together, legs intertwined, until long into the afternoon. 

\---

Anyone who doesn’t like breakfast for dinner really isn’t anyone worth knowing, Ardyn thinks to himself, smiling as the smell of bacon fills the kitchen. 

His previous estimations of lunch had proved to be way off. After falling into a heavy sleep, Ardyn and Gilgamesh were immovable as stone until far past noon, only rousing for a much needed shower before tumbling back into bed. There was a new urgency to their touches the second time around, a fervor they had been able to suppress or ignore previously that bubbled to the surface.

Another nap afterwards was inevitable. 

They next woke long after the sun had set, as if Gilgamesh’s jetlag was infectious. Though both were content just to linger still in each other’s arms, Belit’s annoyed meows and the collective groans from their stomachs suggested otherwise. Gilgamesh stripped the bed as Ardyn took care of the cat and their empty bellies, including a quick run to the store to buy fixings for dinner and creamer for Gilgamesh’s coffee.

“You can just put those in the laundry room, don’t worry about it,” Ardyn calls over his shoulder as Gilgamesh passes through the kitchen, wadded sheets in hand. 

“I got it.” He disappears from sight, the soft sounds of rummaging through cabinets for detergent following shortly after, then emerges with the sound of the washer basin filling. “Smells good,” Gilgamesh says warmly, wrapping his arms around Ardyn from behind. He rests his chin on Ardyn’s shoulder, nuzzling their cheeks together. “Thank you again for taking care of my plants. They seem quite at home in your shower.”

“They were perfectly behaved the entire time. It was my pleasure.”

Gilgamesh plants a quick kiss on Ardyn’s cheek. “You looked good in my shirt, too.”

Ardyn’s smiling like a fool but he doesn’t care. “So that wasn’t a trap.” He sidles over an inch to remove the bacon from the pan, careful not to move so much that Gilgamesh lets go. To his great joy, Gilgamesh doesn’t.

“No comment.” Another kiss to Ardyn’s cheek.

“Is sunny side up okay?” Ardyn steals a quick peck to Gilgamesh’s cheek after placing the empty pan back on the burner. 

Gilgamesh chuckles, a deep, mirthful rumble Ardyn can feel down to his bones. “Don’t think you’ve made me eggs before.” He kisses Ardyn’s temple. “Sunny side up is good.”

“Really? I haven't?” Ardyn reaches for the eggs he'd set out on the counter and cracks them one at a time in the pan, the whites bubbling and popping in the bacon fat. Ardyn finds that sad, almost, that after all these years and he’s not so much as made Gilgamesh eggs. 

Gilgamesh releases Ardyn only to grab two plates and, after Ardyn loads them up with bacon, eggs, and toast, carry them to the table. Ardyn follows quickly behind with two mugs of decaf, Gilgamesh’s pale with the creamer Ardyn bought.

They eat in a companionable silence punctuated with the occasional warm look and warmer laugh. Hands and knees brush as they clean their plates, sopping up runny yolk with generously buttered toast. A bit of grease and salt has always been Ardyn’s go-to choice to soak up excess alcohol in his system, and he finds it just as effective now to clear the love-drunk haze. Not dispel it, by any means, but temper it.

Whether Gilgamesh feels the same way, Ardyn can’t say, but he seems to appreciate having something substantial for the stomach and soul. 

Food devoured and plates pushed out of the way, Ardyn and Gilgamesh sip their coffee. Gilgamesh’s eyes dart around the dim kitchen and he’s worrying at the inside of his cheek; clearly something’s on his mind. Ardyn smooths his thumb over the rim of his mug, knowing it can only be one thing: his tears after consummating a year of wanting. 

“I wasn’t upset. I’m not upset,” he quickly amends, shaking his head lightly.

“It was just that good?” Gilgamesh chuckles, cheeks rosy at his own joke.

Ardyn cocks an eyebrow but can’t begrudge him a laugh. “Maybe?” He doesn’t quite know how to describe it. “I was relieved, I think. That it happened.” Ardyn glances up to see Gilgamesh staring back at him, serious all of the sudden. “Not the, the sex, I mean, that too…” Ardyn inhales deeply, buying a few precious seconds to sort out the torrent of thoughts. “After everything, it worked out. It didn’t stay as just a big ‘what if.’” He pauses. “Does that make any sense?”

Gilgamesh nods. “We’ve known each other for four years.”

“But this,” Ardyn gestures between them, “didn’t start until, what, a year ago?” Gilgamesh just laughs and Ardyn blinks at him. “What? Why’re you laughing?” He makes to nudge Gilgamesh’s hand but Gilgamesh pulls back at the last second, raising his mug to his lips. “Gilgamesh.”

“One year?” He’s smiling as he takes a long pull then sets the mug down with a dull _clunk_. “If you don’t count the three year warmup, I guess.” Though there’s a teasing lilt to his voice, he’s giving Ardyn the most lovingly exasperated look.

“You—no. No. That—Gilgamesh—” Ardyn gapes at him, unable to string two coherent words together. _Gilgamesh has been pining for four years?_ “You’re joking,” he manages.

Gilgamesh just laughs. “You never thought it was weird, how I kept popping by your office? Sat in on all your lectures? The coffee? The food?”

“I just…” It’s as if the world has just started spinning in reverse. All that was is now different and Ardyn’s scrambling to keep up, replaying three years’ worth of encounters and conversations, combing through the evidence to try and make sense of things. “I thought you were being nice.”

Shaking his head, Gilgamesh reaches across the table and squeezes Ardyn’s hand. “And that’s exactly why I like you. Smartest man in the room, but…” His lips curl up at the sides, finding the right way to word it. “I find your obliviousness endearing.”

“ _Endearing_?” Ardyn pulls his hand back, face hot, embarrassed and ashamed. Had he really been that ignorant? All those years, all those looks and conversations and it had _all_ gone over his head?

“Ardyn. Ardyn.” Gilgamesh soothes, getting to his feet, the feet of his chair sliding against the wood floor. He’s at Ardyn’s side in a heartbeat, hands smoothing over his shoulders, draping himself over Ardyn’s back. “It’s alright.”

“Three years,” Ardyn repeats, his own hands loosely sliding up Gilgamesh’s arms. He’s filled with both intense gratitude not to have known three entire years of pining himself, and grief at not realizing it sooner, at putting Gilgamesh through that.

All it takes is Gilgamesh nuzzling against the side of his face to pull Ardyn from his spiraling. “Not as if we were an ocean apart.” A soft kiss to Ardyn’s temple. “I saw you nearly every day.” Another to his cheekbone. “That was enough.”

“You’re too noble for your own good.” A small smile creeps on Ardyn’s face as he turns to kiss Gilgamesh’s cheek. “Which is precisely why I like you.”

“Glad to hear the feeling’s mutual.”

Gilgamesh stops Ardyn from turning away with gentle touch. His eyes are soft, so soft it almost hurts, and Ardyn swears a silent oath here and now to never miss another moment again, sealing it with a kiss. The tendrils of a warm, patient love spreading through him, rooting him in place, Ardyn’s lips don’t leave Gilgamesh’s until the last drops of his coffee have long gone cold.


	11. ...Lives Unnocticed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A slight jump in time; a lived in declaration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those who stuck through to the end of this slow car chase. Though my timing's a little bit off with this last part, I hope it inspires some cozy holiday feelings in you nonetheless. 
> 
> The full quote "one who lives well, lives unnoticed," which I borrowed to use as this fic's title, finally reveals itself. Thanks, Ovid. You were pretty wise when you weren't getting in trouble. 
> 
> For those curious, I put together a playlist of the songs I wrote to, and songs that heavily inspired a lot of the moods in this fic: https://sptfy.com/M5g

Gilgamesh always respected his mother, always appreciated all that she did for him, including keeping him well fed during his years of intense studying to get into university. It was like Gilgamesh’s cup was bottomless, always filled to the brim with hot tea, the intricate design on the plate of biscuits and fruits and other treats never revealing itself due to her constantly restocking it.

His mother’s gestures take on new meaning now as Gilgamesh goes from bowl to bowl, tray to tray, mixing and whipping and frying and roasting a king’s bounty of food. Gilgamesh always knew some of his childhood favorites were work and time intensive to make, but he can’t imagine doing this every day to keep a household fed. Just cooking for two is enough to make his head spin.

Still, with the snow slowly falling outside and the kitchen warm and perfumed with the multitude of Persian spices he brought with him, Gilgamesh feels a sense of peace inside rather than chaos. He’s hardly whipping up the traditional American Christmas dinner, but Ardyn hadn’t complained in the slightest when he offered to make the meal. Rather, he seemed relieved of Gilgamesh’s offer—the opportunity to pass the torch of cooking for a year and focus on his immense pile of papers that need grading. 

They had originally invited plenty of colleagues in the department—invitations that were met with eager acceptance—only for poor weather and subsequent sudden travel changes to put a dash on all their guests’ attendance. 

With the shopping already done, Gilgamesh figured he might as well cook the whole feast instead of bother with trying to cut down his mother’s recipes. Besides, leftovers are _always_ good. 

Gilgamesh stirs the sticky honey coated nuts for the baklava as he cranes his neck to see into the dining room where Ardyn is currently hunkered down. The end of the term is always a busy time, for teacher and student alike, and Ardyn has ungraded papers and exams before him in two haphazard piles. Gilgamesh knows Ardyn needs to concentrate, especially with the looming deadline for submitting grades, so much like his mother did years ago, silently Gilgamesh refills his mug with coffee throughout the afternoon and leaves small plates of goodies to tide him over.

Ardyn always thanks him with a small smile or nod, after which he’ll have to push his thick rimmed glasses up on his nose. He’s wearing a deep red sweater, rather festive, and more often than not Belit is curled in his lap or nearby on the table. 

It’s comfortable. Gilgamesh cooking up a storm in Ardyn’s kitchen, Ardyn working just in the next room. At some point Gilgamesh brings up the local NPR station on his phone and the smooth, dulcet tones of the news anchors fill the silence between stirring and pouring. Gilgamesh considers finding a Christmas station at some point, but ultimately decides against it. It’s not that he doesn’t celebrate Christmas himself, or even that he dislikes the corny songs (quite the opposite, really), but he doesn’t want to do anything to alter this perfect serenity around them.

The sun begins its slow creep down to the horizon early, around four or so. Around five Gilgamesh switches from coffee to wine, uncorking a bottle of red he brought over. He keeps the coffee flowing for Ardyn, though, but he does sneak a small glass of wine next to the plate of dwindling treats. Just in case.

By six everything is nearly done, and Gilgamesh almost runs out of counter space, not to mention pot holders, trying to fit all the pans and trays. It’s certainly an enticing spread, a mix of sweet and savory, hot and chilled. He stirs the enormous pot full of thick _ash reshteh_ , the soup full of lentils, beans, and greens. A beat later Gilgamesh is arranging the assortment of _dolmeh_ on one plate and turning out the crispy, spinach filled _sabzi chalaw_ onto another. 

A few sips of wine are needed here and there to fortify him, but overall Gilgamesh has more to be proud of than not. Only when everything’s completely ready does Gilgamesh go to Ardyn, still elbow deep in term papers. 

“Food’s ready. Hungry?”

Ardyn blinks up at him, bleary eyed, then looks back to the chaos of papers and mugs and cookie crumbs. “I could eat,” he says then, as if he hadn’t been snacking all day. 

“Clear the table a bit for me?” Gilgamesh plants a kiss to the top of Ardyn’s head as he retreats back to the kitchen to begin bringing in the dishes two at a time. 

Endearingly—and maybe _a bit_ frustratingly—Ardyn remains in his seat, unable to tear himself away from his work for a proper meal. Gilgamesh says nothing at first, letting Ardyn finish up on his own accord, but soon enough he runs out of open space on the dining room table and goes round behind Ardyn.

“Five more minutes,” Ardyn says, preempting Gilgamesh.

Belit is underfoot and rubs her face against Gilgamesh’s calf, as if urging him not to back down. She has nothing to fear.

Gently, Gilgamesh removes Ardyn’s glasses and folds them up, then slots them safely in his breast pocket. He plants a soft kiss to Ardyn’s temple, nipping any further protest in the bud. “It’s time to eat.”

Ardyn inhales deeply, holds his breath, then releases it. He knows Gilgamesh is in the right so he doesn’t try and push his luck. Rather, Ardyn caps his pen and straightens his piles of paper. 

Gilgamesh lets Ardyn tidy up as he brings out their plates and silverware, and arranges them on the table. He takes a quick picture of the full spread (to send his mother later) before taking his seat just as Ardyn reappears, almost sheepishly, and takes in the feast before him.

“You were busy,” Ardyn says with a hint of disbelief in his voice. How he can be surprised at the amount of food Gilgamesh prepared, having been not but twenty feet away from the kitchen all day, is a mystery to Gilgamesh.

Gilgamesh just laughs though, and shrugs. “You were busy, too.”

Ardyn takes his seat across from Gilgamesh, his own plate nestled amongst the glistening platters and bowls. He finds his little glass of wine quickly enough and picks it up, prompting Gilgamesh to grab his (refreshed, naturally). “This is… thank you. This all looks amazing.”

Gilgamesh grins. “Fingers crossed it tastes as good as it looks.”

“I don’t think we’ll have any problem there.” Ardyn clinks his glass to Gilgamesh’s. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas.”

\---

After eating their fill, both work together to clear the table and load the fridge with containers and containers worth of leftovers, brimming with color and flavor. All in all it was a delicious meal, though some items were missing just _something_ his mother’s versions have. Gilgamesh knows he’ll have plenty to talk about next time he Skypes his parents, the mysteries of his mother’s _samanu_ being one of them. 

With the leftovers sorted, Ardyn sticks around just long enough in the kitchen to help load the dishwasher and deal with what dishes and utensils can’t fit by hand washing them. He returns to his papers as Gilgamesh finishes wiping off the counters and stove top, a fresh pot of decaf brewing to settle the stomach. 

When everything is good and taken care of, and both he and Ardyn have their cups of coffee, Gilgamesh settles in on the couch in the living room, content to watch some horribly cheesy made for TV Christmas movie. 

The TV being within earshot of Ardyn, he occasionally laughs or groans at some of the more ridiculous twists and turns the movie takes—why are _all_ these movies inadvertently about falling in love with and marrying Santa Claus?—but never comes in to cuddle up and watch with Gilgamesh. 

Around midnight Gilgamesh feels himself falling asleep on the couch, a fact not helped by how soundly Belit is sleeping next to him. Begrudgingly, Gilgamesh gets up, the wooden floor chilly on his socked feet, and goes to Ardyn. “Come to bed,” he urges, kissing Ardyn’s cheek before heading for the stairs to shower and sleep.

“Soon,” Ardyn calls back, though a bit delayed, still absorbed in his papers.

Gilgamesh has enough time to shower, change, settle into bed, _and_ read a few chapters of the novel he’s currently working his way through before thinking he should check on Ardyn, the no-show. Padding softly out of the bedroom and down the stairs—avoiding the cold wood where he can—Gilgamesh shakes his head at the sight of Ardyn hunched over the table still.

“Burning the midnight oil?”

Ardyn startles slightly, head twisting over his shoulder to see Gilgamesh standing in the doorway, arms crossed before his chest. 

“I’ll be right up…”

“You said that an hour ago.” Gilgamesh unfolds his arms as he goes to Ardyn. If he’s being honest, he loves how Ardyn gets lost in things like this. How he pours every iota of his attention into the subject in question. Gilgamesh knows firsthand just how it feels to be the object of such attention, which perhaps is why now he’s all the more eager to pull Ardyn from his work. 

Gilgamesh draps his arms over Ardyn’s shoulders and leans down, nuzzling his face into Ardyn’s hair. The strands are loose and soft, smelling natural and like little else than Ardyn himself. “Come to bed.” Gilgamesh presses a kiss to Ardyn’s head. 

Ardyn sighs lightly, a part of him unwilling, maybe. Like a child told to put their toys away, their parent having put the kibosh on their fun. 

But Gilgamesh presses another kiss to Ardyn’s head and gives his shoulders a warm squeeze. “Bed,” he intones. 

A kiss or two later Ardyn untangles himself from Gilgamesh’s embrace and collects his used mugs from the table. Gilgamesh switches off the lights as he hears the tap flip on, Ardyn rinsing out his mugs lightly. They meet at the foot of the stairs after then head up to the bedroom, Gilgamesh leading the way. Footsteps muffled by the thick rugs, Belit doesn’t stir from her spot curled up on a pair of jeans on the floor in the bedroom when they enter. 

“I’ll just be a minute,” Ardyn says softly, pulling his sweater up over his head. 

Gilgamesh eases himself down onto the bed, watching Ardyn disrobe layer by layer. It’s an enticing enough scene, but there’s just enough of a nip in the bedroom air to encourage him to huddle under the covers instead of pursuing Ardyn into the adjoined bathroom. 

The wood not covered by one of the rugs is icy cold to the touch, so Ardyn hops fleet-footed to the bathroom after getting undressed. He leaves the door cracked open a hair—an invitation, perhaps—and the shower turns on a beat later. Soon enough a gentle billow of steam emerges through the door crack, and Gilgamesh hears the shower door open and close.

Sleepy all of the sudden, Gilgamesh closes his eyes and just listens to the distant hiss of the water. It’s a comforting feeling and sound, and it reminds Gilgamesh of his undergrad days sharing a dorm with a roommate. There was nothing more comforting than hearing his roommate quietly get ready early in the morning before the sun had risen while Gilgamesh was free to remain in bed a bit longer. Though he would hardly classify Ardyn as simply a ‘roommate,’ he arouses that same feeling of intense comfort in Gilgamesh, and he finds himself nodding off.

Ever so gently the covers pull back, causing the hair on Gilgamesh’s legs and arms to stand on end at the sudden chill. Gilgamesh stirs ever so slightly, eyelids heavy with sleep, the rest of his body feeling like lead. 

Cracking an eye open, Gilgamesh regards Ardyn, now at his side on the bed, having pulled the covers down. His auburn hair is still wet, though he’s wearing an oversized sleep shirt—one Gilgamesh recognizes all too well—boxers, and a pair of white socks with light grey soles. He thinks maybe he should say something, but by the same notion it doesn’t feel like it’s his place to say anything at all. 

The little shiver that rattles through Gilgamesh’s body breaks the moment sure enough _(goddamn this giant body and its absolute uselessness in the cold)_. 

Instead of moving to cover Gilgamesh with the blankets once again, Ardyn instead rises onto his knees. In one smooth, languid motion Ardyn is straddling Gilgamesh, looking down at him. Ardyn’s thighs are warm and supple on Gilgamesh’s where their skin meets, and there almost appears to be a halo of residual steam from the shower around his head. Ardyn smiles down at Gilgamesh, almost shyly. It isn’t often he’s so forward, but the last thing on Gilgamesh’s mind is a complaint.

Leaning down, Ardyn’s eyes fall shut as he brings Gilgamesh into a soft kiss. He cups the side of Gilgamesh’s head with one hand as the other rests on Gilgamesh’s chest, over his thrumming heart. He touches Gilgamesh with a tenderness not unlike their first time.

Ardyn’s warmth washes over him with the smell of clean skin and soap. Gilgamesh lets his hands wander, rubbing the backs of Ardyn’s thighs, over the curve of his ass, up his flanks. He sneaks a hand under Ardyn’s loose shirt, finds his skin hot to the touch. Gilgamesh wants more—more of that heat and that affection, though his head is still swimming with sleep. Lazily his hand slips down from the small of Ardyn’s back, catching the elastic waistband of Ardyn’s boxers, tugging it down.

Gilgamesh swallows Ardyn’s gasp, his fingertips teasing the soft skin and dusting of hair on his ass. He just moves his fingers in slow circles, barely touching Ardyn’s skin, until the ticklish sensation is too much to bear and Ardyn pulls back from the kiss with a flustered grunt.

“Want me to stop?” Gilgamesh’s voice is thick with sleep, but he can’t fight the grin on his face.

Ardyn’s face is rather red, both from the shower and from Gilgamesh, and he smooths his hand over Gilgamesh’s chest thoughtfully. “If I said ‘no’?”

Gilgamesh uses his other hand to drag down Ardyn’s boxers over his ass and pulls them down to mid-thigh. 

It’s Ardyn’s turn to shiver now, though not from the cold. He’s stock-still on top of Gilgamesh, lips parted, gaze unfocused and pupils blown out. A few stray droplets of water drip down from Ardyn’s hair onto Gilgamesh’s shirt in the silent moments that pass between them. 

“I love you.”

The three little words slip from Gilgamesh’s tongue like they were a mundane observation. A worn and lived in notion, not something that had, up to now, gone unspoken. 

Ardyn takes in a breath, holds it, but says nothing. His hand tenses over Gilgamesh’s chest and his brows knit together, like he’s trying to puzzle out what Gilgamesh said.

Warmly, Gilgamesh smooths his palms over the globes of Ardyn’s ass, up his back and over his ribs. The declaration—no, the _statement_ in all its banal glory—doesn’t so much as make his heart pound and palms sweat. He realizes it’s because the feeling _is_ lived in. It’s nothing new, not to him—he’s been harboring it for years. A patient, shy love; a seed buried _just_ too far underground to sprout. But now, noticed and quenched, a sprout is finally breaking through the surface of the soil, reaching for the warmth of the sun—

“I love you, too,” Ardyn says all of the sudden, his voice clear and strong. “I love you.”

There’s a quip on the tip of Gilgamesh’s tongue— _took you long enough to realize_ —but it goes unsaid as their lips meet once more, unhurried as ever but a definite thrum of need underneath it all. 

Gilgamesh pulls Ardyn down, their chests pressed together, and cards a hand through Ardyn’s damp hair. Everything about Ardyn feel good, feels safe and, dare he think it, like home. 

Twisting, the two roll onto their sides, legs intertwining, hands snaking up and down and around one another’s bodies. The kiss breaks, just long enough for them to catch their breath, foreheads pressed together. Their eyes meet in the dark, and never has Gilgamesh felt so seen and so present in all of his life.

Ardyn cracks a smile, small at first, then wide and so full of joy it makes Gilgamesh grin, his chest soaring. 

It’s all they can do to laugh then, tangled in one another’s limbs, sharing the bed it feels like they were meant to share. Sharing the breath between them. Sharing a moment that will become crystalline in its perfection, fondly recalled by both in the many years to come.


End file.
